Although she knew she should not do so, Mary smiled again. Charlotte looked at her gravely.
“If he does, I would advise you most strongly to refuse him. Say you are tired or too much heated. That you intend to dance no more for a while.”
“But he’s been so kind to me! And I have loved dancing with him!”
Charlotte regarded her with a faintly pitying look.
“I am afraid I shall have to speak more plainly. No matter how kind he is, he is not a suitable partner for you. His father visits people’s houses and fits them for spectacles. Think what Mr. Bennet would say.”
Overcome with shame, Mary could not at first compose herself to reply. My father barely notices if I am in the room or not, she thought; he hardly speaks to me. Why should he care if I have some conversation with a polite, respectable young man?
“For myself,” said Charlotte, staring calmly out at the dance floor, “I do not mind at all. I am arrived at a time when I think I might look kindly on the man who runs the circulating library if he were to speak nicely to me and offer to keep new books aside on my behalf, for all he is over fifty and blind in one eye. But,” she declared, turning to look at Mary directly, “I am not your mother. And I can promise you that if I have noticed those two dances and the refreshments Mr. Sparrow expects to share with you, she will have done so too.”
She touched Mary’s shoulder very lightly with her fan.
“I mention it only as a friend who understands better than most in your family how rare and how pleasing it is for women like us to be singled out in this way. But, whatever his charms, I am afraid you will find your mother has an altogether different sense of his worth.”
With that, she tipped her head in polite acknowledgement and moved away. Astonished, Mary stood rooted to the spot. Charlotte is jealous, she told herself. No-one wants to dance with her. Because she is miserable, she cannot bear that anyone else should be happy. She seeks to spoil for others what she cannot have for herself. But much as she tried to resist them, disturbing thoughts began to take shape in her mind. It was only too easy to imagine how Mrs. Bennet would respond to the idea of her dancing with Mr. Sparrow. She pictured her mother rising up from her little gold chair, marching across the floor, declaring to a horrified Mr. Sparrow that her daughter would not be standing up with him in the next set, nor in any other. She saw him humbled and humiliated as Mrs. Bennet carried her away, saw him standing solitary and ashamed in their wake. She understood in an instant that this would happen. How could she have been so stupid? Lydia had seen her; she would make sure their mother knew, would laugh and crow and joke about it. She swallowed hard. She could not allow it. She could not watch whilst such a good man was made to look a fool, only for paying her some small attentions. By the time she caught sight of Mr. Sparrow’s tall figure striding back to her with two glasses in his hand, she knew what she had to do.
“I am sorry to have been so long away, but the crowd fighting for its supper was immense! I never knew Meryton was home to so many hungry people.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Mary, taking her drink, unable to meet his smile. “It is most welcome, for I am very thirsty.”
She looked away, and from the corner of her eye, she caught an unwelcome glimpse of her mother and Lady Lucas, still seated in their sanctuary, with their heads close together in talk. Were they staring in her direction as they did so? Mary could not tell. Her stomach lurched with fear. She peered into the flickering candlelight but could not make out their faces.
“Shall we stand up once more?” John Sparrow extended his hand with the clear expectation she would accept.
“Thank you, sir, but I cannot—that is, I am afraid I must decline.”
He paused and lowered his arm.
“But why not? I thought—I thought…”
She could not bear to see his expression, confused and disappointed.
“I know, I know, and so did I—but—my mother—I fear—” At last she got possession of herself enough to speak sensibly. “I am very sorry, but I cannot dance with you again. I have very much enjoyed it—really, I have—but cannot do so any more. I am persuaded I have danced enough for one night. I am sorry, but now I must take my leave.”
She handed her drink back to him, and he stood there, two glasses in hand, as she walked blindly towards where Mrs. Bennet and Lady Lucas sat. A few hot tears sprang into her eyes, but she wiped them away harshly. No-one—and least of all her mother—should see she was upset.
When she arrived at Mrs. Bennet’s side, Mary saw immediately that she was extremely displeased. “Where have you been?” she demanded as Mary approached. “I haven’t seen you these two hours. Lydia told me you have been dancing—with the oculist’s son! With the boy who made your glasses! I said it couldn’t be true—that even you, Mary, would have more consideration than to subject me to such an embarrassment. His father keeps a shop, you know. With a bell on the door!”
Mary thought it best to say nothing. An argument would only draw attention to her shame. Instead she took up a position behind her mother, where she could not be seen by the revellers. She hung her head and smoothed her cream-and-gold dress. She would not dance again, no matter who asked her. The time dragged heavily after that. Occasionally, her sisters returned to speak to their mother, or to dab scent behind their ears. Only Elizabeth noticed Mary’s sad, extinguished presence.
“Are you quite well, Mary? I saw you standing up earlier. You looked in fine spirits. Has something happened?”
“No, Lizzy, nothing at all. I am content where I am.”
“You do not look content. I am going back for a last jog about. Won’t you come with me?”
“Thank you, but no. I shan’t dance again.”
At last, when all the food was eaten and all the decent wine drunk, the ball drew to a close. The musicians played “God Save the King,” and the servants began snuffing out the candles.
Mary followed her sisters into the hall, where the guests rummaged furiously through a mountain of cloaks and coats. At the front of the scrum, Kitty was bravely plucking out any garment she recognised.
“Mary! Are you there? Here’s your cloak!”
She threw it over the heads of those behind her, but Mary was too slow to catch it. Another arm reached out and rescued it. As she looked up, Mary saw it was John Sparrow. He handed it to her wordlessly. She accepted it in equal silence. Then he nodded at her blankly and was gone.
Chapter 11
In the carriage going home, Lydia was in the highest possible spirits. She had been forced to sit out only two dances the whole evening, and had made the acquaintance of three new officers, hitherto unthought-of. She regaled her sisters with a detailed account of her successes, but they were not a very receptive audience. Jane and Kitty were both soon asleep. Elizabeth gazed out the window, and Mary played with her gloves, plaiting the fingers together and then untwisting them again, her mind far away. Finally, piqued beyond endurance by the lack of interest in her conquests, Lydia looked about her, searching for a suitable subject to tease and annoy.
“And what about you, Mary? I saw you standing up with two beaux, though it must be said, one was a schoolboy and the other a shopkeeper. What a triumph for your first outing!”
Mary threw her gloves into her lap, as angered as her sister had hoped she would be.
“At least they were both gentlemen, which is more than can be said for some of the partners you were so desperate to be seen with!”
Lydia, who much preferred an argument to silence, laughed out loud.
“You don’t really mean to say that Mr. Sparrow is a gentleman. Even you can’t really believe that. His father has a shop in Hertford. I suppose we may look forward to seeing you serving there, wearing a green apron in daytime and drawing up the accounts by night.”
“You seem to have forgotten,” retorted Mary, “that our grandfather had an office in Meryton, and our uncle keeps one there still. Are they not to be considered gentlemen?”
“Really, Mary, for shame!” cried Mrs. Bennet. “Your grandfather was an attorney, as is your uncle. That is a profession, not a trade.”
“But what of my uncle Gardiner? He is a merchant, is he not?” countered Mary, as furious now as her mother.
“He has his own warehouses!” exclaimed Mrs. Bennet. “And a large house at Gracechurch Street. There is every difference in the world.”
“Anyway,” concluded Lydia, happy now that everyone was cross, “if I ever find myself in want of spectacles—which I devoutly hope will never be the case—I shall be sure to obtain them from your little business. I hope that for such a near relation, you will offer a decent discount.”
Mrs. Bennet, still smarting from the insults she believed had been offered to her family, tossed her head in disdain. Nothing mattered more to her than seeing her daughters safely married; but it was inconceivable that one of her girls should unite herself to a man who had sent in his bill for Mr. Bennet to pay.
“I only danced with him twice,” said Mary in a small, defeated voice.
“That is twice more than I should have permitted if I had seen you do so,” declared Mrs. Bennet. “I want to hear no more of this Sparrow. In truth, I am surprised at his presumption.”
Mary said no more. When the carriage arrived back at Longbourn, she hurried up to her room and closed the door. She did not answer Mrs. Hill’s knocks. For a while she stared dry-eyed into the darkness. Then she lit a candle and undressed herself. She folded the new dress over a chair, where, until she blew out the flame, its gold threads continued to catch the flickering brightness from the candle.
Chapter 12
Mary avoided all Mrs. Hill’s attempts to discover how she had enjoyed the ball. She hid in her bedroom, pleading a headache, or retreated to the garden, walking alone amongst the shrubs. What could she say that did not reflect badly on herself? She had insulted a man who had done nothing but treat her kindly. He had sought out her company when no-one else wished for it, and she had rewarded him with a most odious dismissal. She was ashamed of herself. Why had she capitulated so quickly to Charlotte Lucas’s warnings? Why had she retreated so tamely when threatened with her mother’s disapproval? It was not as though that was an unfamiliar experience. She was sure neither Elizabeth nor Lydia would have been so easily cowed. Whereas she—Mary shook her head, contemptuous at her own weakness.
In the days that followed, there was not a moment when she was not tormented by guilt, or ferociously angry with herself. On the third night after the ball, once she had prepared herself for bed, she pulled up a chair to the bedroom window, opened it, and stared out into the dark, silent garden. Was this who she was? A coward, who lacked the courage to follow her own inclinations? A silly girl, too timid to trust her own judgement, who submitted dumbly to what others told her?
She breathed in the cool night air and hugged her shawl more tightly around her. That was not how she had felt when John Sparrow asked her to dance. Then she had been fearless, had she not? Then she had known her own mind. She bit her lip, forcing herself to think more clearly. In truth, she was compelled to admit that her mind had played no part at all in what happened. When he invited her that second time, when he held out his hand to lead her to the dance floor, she had not consulted her intellect, of which she was so proud. She had weighed nothing up. She had not debated whether she should say yes or no. She had not considered how it would look, or what her mother might say. She had not thought at all; she had been governed entirely by her feelings, by the pleasure she felt as he asked and the excitement that mounted in her as she followed him into the crowd.
Whilst it lasted, it had been wonderful. A shiver of delight ran through her as she remembered how she had felt as he smiled at her. But then Charlotte had spoken and she had given in, and the result had been humiliation for both of them. For herself, she thought she could bear it. But it was inexpressibly painful to think she had inflicted hurt upon John Sparrow, whose only sin was to have been attentive to her.
She rose and paced about her bedroom. Such a dreadful thing must never be allowed to happen again. It was all her fault. Her emotions had betrayed her. Her stupid, unruly feelings had led her into error, causing misery to a man who did not deserve it. They could not be trusted and must be tamed, subdued. She must find some other guide upon which to depend.
She sat down at her desk, and her eye fell upon the many volumes piled up there. She ran her hand gently across their spines; and as she did so, an idea struck her, a thought so obvious she could not believe it had not occurred to her before. Her books would save her. Within their pages, she would find everything she needed to keep her safe from further error. Writers whose capacities far exceeded her own would tell her how to behave. Their conclusions would direct her, show her what she must do to act rightly. In an instant, she understood that the books she devoured so avidly were not merely intellectual abstractions. A thoughtful reader like herself might treat them as handbooks, as manuals of instruction, from which rules might be extracted that explained how to live a calm and rational existence.
Mary was alert now, her thoughts racing. Yes, yes, that made sense. Study would show her the way, if she allowed it to do so. The wisdom of the ages was surely more to be relied upon than her own ridiculous sentiments. But if she was to absorb and understand what she read, her mind must be clear and receptive, unclouded by strong emotions. If she wished to act rightly, she must conquer her passions. Her heart had failed her, and now her intellect must take its place. Her reason, and not her feelings, must in future be relied upon to tell her what to do. She must think more and feel less. That way she should do no more damage, either to herself or others.
She moved back to her place by the window. Low voices rose up from the kitchen, as Mrs. Hill and the servants cleared the last of the supper things. Mary closed her eyes and sat quite still, willing herself to accept the decision she had made. But for all her efforts, a wave of resentment rose up unbidden from within her, protesting at the course she meant to adopt. Did she appreciate what she was about to renounce? Was she really prepared never again to experience that glorious rush of excitement that had overwhelmed her when she had danced with John Sparrow? Never again to feel so exuberantly, unthinkingly immersed in the pleasure of the moment? As she recalled that fleeting happiness, part of her flinched at the severity of the measures she had imposed upon herself. But then she thought of John Sparrow’s face as he had looked when she rejected him. His remembered expression cut her to the quick. No, she had made her choice. She closed the window and made her way over to her bed. She would begin upon it the very next day. She lay there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. There was nothing to be gained by delay.
Chapter 13
The next morning, once breakfast was over, Mary made her way to the library. She was glad to find Mr. Bennet was not there; it would be easier to search for what she wanted without his sceptical eye upon her. She passed over the volumes of philosophy and history which usually detained her, consigning Locke, Hobbes, and Rousseau to some future period. She had decided to begin with more practical and direct works of instruction. It took a while before she found them. But eventually, tucked into a corner, she discovered a collection of little books whose titles suggested they were exactly what she sought. She picked up A Letter of Genteel and Moral Advice to a Young Lady and An Enquiry into the Duties of the Female Sex and laid them on the table where she usually read and worked. Both were very dusty; it was a long time since anyone had taken them from their shelf. She took out her handkerchief, wiped off the worst of the dirt, and smiled as she imagined what Lydia would say if presented with them. But what was that to her? They might not please her sister, but they would do very well for her purposes. She added a few more similar works to her pile and took them away to examine them in private.
Most did not detain her for long. Even in her present low-spirited state, Mary was not much enamoured of writers who insisted that a woman unfortunate enough to
be in possession of any learning had better do all she could to conceal it. That savoured too much of her mother’s opinion to please her. Perhaps, wondered Mary, it was Mrs. Bennet who had acquired the books in the first place? That thought did nothing further to recommend them, and she began to feel impatient with her haul. Finally, just as she was about to give up, she came upon a small book of sermons. Mary had never heard of its author, a Dr. Fordyce; but as she turned its pages, she quickly discovered that his ideas were far more to her taste.
Unlike his fellow authors, he thought it a sad thing for a woman to remain in ignorance, her intellect neglected and unformed. For him, an inclination towards serious reading was an excellent quality in a female, a habit to be cultivated rather than concealed. It was much to be regretted, he added, that so many ladies read only novels. Such works could not add to the stock of their knowledge and offered instead a false and misleading picture of the world. Mary paused at this. Mrs. Bennet was a great reader of novels. Dr. Fordyce made some excellent points. She decided she would read on.
As she did so, she discovered that Dr. Fordyce took a dim view of many of her mother’s ruling passions. In his opinion, the hours spent on female fripperies such as dress, hair, and other adornments was time thrown away; these were empty distractions with which no sensible woman should concern herself. True beauty, he declared, had nothing to do with outward appearance. It came from within, the product of a well-regulated mind and a properly formed understanding. These qualities, and not a pretty face, are the real measure of a woman’s worth. Mary took her pencil and carefully underlined this sentence. It was so much the opposite of everything her mother believed that it could not help but please her.
However, continued Dr. Fordyce, it was regrettably the case that for some foolish people, good looks remained the only standard by which a woman is judged; but those of more discernment understand that a steady, informed character is a prize of incalculably more value. Theirs is the only good opinion worth having. Those who value more superficial qualities need not be attended to. The woman who grasps this important point will not bother herself with the pursuit of the empty trappings of fashion. She will use her time more sensibly, seeking to absorb any knowledge that will help her make the correct choices in her journey through life.
The Other Bennet Sister Page 7
