But then came the sound of music overhead—the dancing had begun again—and the thought of Peter brought fresh pain. I resolved not to give way to it, however. I would open the spinet and see how it sounded.
It proved to be surprisingly well tuned, and I played until weariness and the cold overcame me. It now wanted twenty minutes to midnight, but overhead the dancing continued. I calculated they would be at it for hours yet—Lydia had earlier declared her intention to dance until dawn—and after removing my spectacles and placing them atop the spinet, I again covered myself with a coat and lay upon the bench.
The last of the music I recall hearing was another Burns air. I knew one of the verses—it made me think of Peter:
What though on homely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin gray, an’ a’ that?
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man’s a man for a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Their tinsel show, an’ a’ that,
The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor,
Is king o’ men for a’ that.
1.
I awoke to find Peter standing over me, holding a branch of candles. I believed myself to be dreaming, but his face as he bent over me seemed so solid that I unthinkingly reached up and touched it. I encountered warm flesh—the shock of a shaven chin—and fast drew back my hand as from fire.
“Mary Bennet! What on earth are you doing here?”
Somehow I managed to sit up, to speak. “Is the ball over?”
“It is, yes. Miss Bingley gave us the order to stop playing.”
“Oh good heavens! Is it very late? Are they all looking for me?”
“Don’t fret yourself, ’tis only just gone twelve.”
He had turned away to set down the candles, and for the first time I sensed in him an awkwardness. I wondered if perhaps he were wanting to distance himself from me—whether having heard me sing, he had conceived a disgust for me. The idea was dreadful.
I got up, saying: “I must go.”
But I made no further move. I was furiously thinking of something to say. He in the meantime picked up my spectacles from off the spinet. “Are these yours?”
“They are, thank you.”
He was smiling now—looking more like his usual self. He said: “I thought there was something missing.”
“I wish I did not need to wear them, they are the bane of my existence.” I was so pleased to see him smile that I began to gabble from the Commonplace Book: “But I console myself with the thought that had I been blessed with perfect vision, I might not have appreciated music so much.”
“Ah, that sounds like an old woman talking.”
I was momentarily taken aback. “Well, yes, I did live with a lady in Bath for several years—a very kind and cultivated lady who taught me to think on subjects worth thinking about—her name was Mrs. Knowles—Mrs. Pitt, I should say—but yes, you’re quite right, that was indeed her opinion.”
“Take good care of you, did she?”
“Very good care, yes.”
“That’s all right then.”
He began to collect the coats that I had spread upon the bench.
I said: “Oh, I found those old clothes over the altar rail—”
“Old clothes! I’ll have you know, Miss Mary Bennet, that this is m’best coat.”
He may have been laughing but he certainly wasn’t joking. He appeared even to take a perverse pride in his poverty—holding up a moth-eaten old gray coat for my inspection. The thought of him appearing in public in such a garment distressed me, and as if he could read my thoughts, he said: “Rob Waldron’s coat is a lot worse than mine—at least my coat’s clean.” And then suddenly he became serious, thanking me again for recommending them to Mr. Bingley. “He’s paid us handsomely and ’twill make a great difference—this time of year especially. Jim Payne has seven mouths to feed.”
“I could have wished that Miss Bingley had treated you as well.”
He shrugged. “We’re just the pipers—they call the tune.”
After a pause I said again: “I must go. They will be wondering what’s become of me.”
I held out my hand and he took it. I said: “I’ve not forgotten about the violin lessons. I will speak to my father.”
But at the mention of my father, his expression changed. He let go my hand, saying: “No, don’t do that—let’s forget about that for the present.”
I was sure then that my singing had given him such a poor opinion of my musical abilities that he no longer wished to have me for a pupil. And he now seemed most anxious to leave, bundling up all the coats and picking up the branch of candles: “Are we all set then?”
I went on ahead of him but at the open door I paused and, with my back to him, spoke his name. “Peter.” It was the first time I had used his name. “You heard me sing tonight, did you not?”
“Yes, love.”
The endearment took my breath away—made me forget what I had meant to say. I stood there with but one thought: He must care about me. But when he spoke, it was with a touch of impatience: “Come now. We must get back.”
We walked down the passage, not speaking until we neared the end, where he stopped and asked me whether I went often to Clarke’s Library.
Upon my assuring him that I did, he said: “I’ll leave a message for you there.”
“When?”
“Soon.” He was smiling—amused at my eagerness perhaps. “I’m not my own master, Mary.”
At that point a housemaid entered the lobby, and we were obliged at once to go our separate ways: he to the servants’ quarters, I to the drawing room above.
In all the bustle of leave-taking and carriages being called for, it was easy for me to slip into the room unnoticed. I had never in all my life felt so elated. Peter cared for me! It was a miracle I longed to celebrate—to tell all Hertfordshire—and I had to hold my hand to my mouth against an involuntary smile.
The Lucases, I saw, had already left, and with them Cassandra. I was glad of it, being in no fit state to endure either Maria’s questions or Cassandra’s scrutiny. All the members of my family were present, however—Lydia and Kitty talking to the remaining redcoats, Elizabeth sitting silently beside our father and mother, while Jane stood a little apart talking to Mr. Bingley. Mr. Collins was making one of his long speeches, thanking Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst for their hospitality to himself—“a stranger, and ye took me in.”
The room was fast emptying and before long my mother spied me and began to scold: “And where have you been hiding yourself, pray? In the library with your nose in a book I’ll be bound.” But upon two of the officers coming up to make their adieux she forgot about me and was in such good humor (frequently looking at Bingley and Jane) that I felt myself safe from further notice.
Our family was soon the last party of guests remaining, and Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst no longer tried to disguise their weariness. Mr. Darcy had moved to a more distant part of the room—away from Mr. Collins—where he stood with folded arms and closed lips, looking from time to time at Elizabeth (who preserved an equal silence) but almost as frequently at Jane and Bingley. My father was also silent, but I could tell from the creases about his mouth that he was enjoying himself. Lydia was slumped in a chair, yawning, while Kitty complained in fretful accents about the lateness of the carriage.
At long last we took our leave, with Mama issuing a general invitation for them to visit Longbourn and in particular asking Mr. Bingley to “take pot luck” with us just as soon as he returned from London (he was to go to London for a short visit the following day). Bingley accepted with pleasure, but there was a marked lack of enthusiasm on the part of the others. Mama seemed satisfied, however, and on the journey home was full of self-congratulatory talk, confessing that she had arranged for our carriage to be delayed on purpose to prolong the visit.
2.
So intent was I that night on revisiting the Netherfield chapel a
nd recalling Peter’s every word and look that I hardly slept. But from time to time the memory of my father’s unkindness would rush in on me and while it could not extinguish my happiness, it did stir up some bitter feelings that I had long labored to get the better of.
Being sure that he would never apologize, I was startled when he bestowed a small smile on me at breakfast and said that he wished to see me in his library in half an hour. I retreated to my room in the interval and when I emerged I knew at once that there was something going on—some domestic drama—for Kitty and Lydia were on the landing, peering over the banister to the vestibule below. At sight of me, Lydia looked as if she might explode, so red-faced was she.
“You will never guess.”
She was unable to go on, whereupon Kitty whispered: “Do not go into the breakfast room. Mr. Collins is in there proposing to Lizzy.”
Lydia then unstopped her mouth to gasp: “Tell her what he said to Mama.”
“He asked Mama if he could solicit—” (here Kitty began to snort) “—solicit for a private audience with her ‘fair daughter Elizabeth’—and when Lizzy tried to run away, Mama made her stay and hear him.”
I could not help smiling. “Poor Mr. Collins.”
“Lord! who cares about Mr. Collins.”
“Say ‘poor Lizzy,’ rather,” said Kitty. “Mama is going to be so angry if she does not accept him.”
“Mama will make him offer for you then, Mary,” said Lydia. “You are the next in line.”
They were soon giggling afresh at the idea, calling me “Mrs. Collins” &c., at which point I left them to make my way downstairs.
The library door was ajar, and on my approach, my father laid aside his book and picked up a letter lying open on the desk-top.
“This came several days ago,” said he. “It is from a young man—a very talented young musician—” (Here he paused and eyed me in a speculative, slightly malicious way.) “—someone with whom you were once extremely friendly. Can you guess who it might be?”
Wild thoughts of Peter crossed my mind but I said with a fair assumption of calmness, “I collect you refer to George Rovere, Papa.”
“You collect right.” Having had his sport, he now turned back to the letter: “He and his stepfather, Mr. Purvis are to stay at West Hall, and the young man writes—very properly—to ask permission to call at Longbourn when they are in the neighborhood. And while I was at first reluctant to agree to it—” (giving me a look) “—on further consideration, I think it not a bad thing. Young people like to be together.”
So saying, he handed me the letter but upon my venturing to ask whether he had replied to it: “Not yet, no. Perhaps you would like to do it for me?”
And then taking pity on my tongue-tied discomfiture: “Well, well. I shall certainly write before Christmas.”
I wondered then whether this was his way of making amends. But for that, George’s letter would surely have been consigned to the fire or left to lie unanswered with all the other letters gathering dust upon his desk. He may have seen me looking at these for he picked up two that were unopened, saying: “Mr. Jones’s shop-boy brought this round for you this morning—” (handing me a sealed note from Cassandra) “—the other came in the morning post.”
It was from Mrs. Knowles. (To me, she would always be “Mrs. Knowles.”) I thanked him, but he had already returned to his book—his customary sign of dismissal. I was on the point of quitting the room when my mother burst in, crying out as she pushed past me: “Oh! Mr. Bennet, you are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. You must come and make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will not have him, and if you do not make haste he will change his mind and not have her.”
I did not wait to hear more; I escaped into the drawing room with my letters, closing the door against the clamor in the rest of the house—my mother’s continuing shrill tones and the clatter of footsteps as the maidservant ran to fetch Elizabeth.
Cassandra’s note was short, but it told me what I wanted to know:
My dear Mary, we shall all be at home this morning (the all was underlined) and look forward to seeing you as soon as is convenient.
I thanked God, reading it, and was most heartily ashamed of myself for not having thought of Helen before; I had even forgotten to pray for her—for her safe return. I now determined to walk to Meryton directly. Mrs. Knowles’s letter would have to wait. And the idea of seeing George again did not particularly excite me: I felt sure that he would have changed beyond recognition—it would be like meeting with a stranger.
3.
The house was still in an uproar when I left—Mama pleading with Elizabeth to accept Mr. Collins, and at length resorting to scolding and threats. On my way out, I met with Charlotte Lucas, who had come to spend the day. I did not need to inform her what was going on—Mama could be heard from the rooftops and beyond.
In contrast, the Longs’ front parlor seemed a pattern of domestic harmony. When I arrived, Mrs. Long, Cassandra, and Helen were all seated around the fire and gainfully employed—Mrs. Long with her carpet work, Helen sewing, and Cassandra sketching.
But it was soon clear that all was not well beneath the surface. Since breakfast, they had had to endure a stream of morning callers—all enquiring after Helen’s health and lamenting her absence from last night’s ball—and the strain of repeating careful lies was beginning to show. Cassandra looked quite worn down from civilities and Mrs. Long’s unease was revealed in a flow of inconsequential chatter. Only Helen seemed serene—sewing away with smiling concentration.
Cassandra cut short Mrs. Long’s account of Helen’s illness, saying: “Aunt, I have already told Mary what happened. She knows it all.”
Mrs. Long put down her carpet work. “Well, I must say—I question whether that was wise, Cassandra—”
“My dear aunt, you know that Mary is to be trusted—she is almost one of the family.”
“Nobody said she wasn’t to be trusted—” (here Mrs. Long gave me a forced smile) “but I’m sure Mary will not mind my saying, if her dear mother were ever to hear of it—one of my oldest friends but her discretion is not—I am sure Mary will not take offence if I speak plain.”
“I will not speak of it to anybody, ma’am, I promise.”
The door opened then and Helen spoke just one word under her breath: “Murder.” (It may have been a French word she spoke, but let it stand.) It was not another visitor, however, only Betty with the coffee-pot. Both Mrs. Long and Cassandra were at pains to thank her, and as soon as she left the room Mrs. Long said: “To be sure Betty is as good a girl as ever lived, but there’s no denying that we are all in her power now.”
At which point Helen jumped up and declared her intention of going for a governess.
“Don’t talk nonsense,” said Cassandra.
“It is not nonsense. I am an accomplished needlewoman, my French is excellent, I can dance, I can sing—”
Mrs. Long cried out: “This is your home, Helen, and so I have said a hundred times—and for you to talk in that wild way—let us have no more of it, I beg you.”
“I will not stay to bring disgrace on you, Aunt.”
“Oh for God’s sake!” Cassandra finally lost patience with her sister. “Running away never solved anything, and you have caused poor Aunt quite enough anxiety.” She continued more calmly: “We must conduct ourselves so as to give the neighbors no more food for gossip. We must be careful to be polite to everybody.” She gave Helen a look. “And I do mean everybody.”
“Just as though nothing has happened,” said Mrs. Long.
Helen addressed Cassandra in a low, choked voice: “So you would have me be polite to him, would you?”
“To him especially.”
The silence that followed was dreadful. They were eyeing each other like two cats, and in my nervousness I made things worse by quoting from the Commonplace Book: “It is said that politeness is the currency of a civilized society.”
Helen’s response
was to quit the room, and a moment later Mrs. Long got up to go also.
Cassandra said: “Best leave her be, Aunt.”
“My dear Cassandra—I am only going to help Betty with the sandwiches.”
She was absent quite long enough for Cassandra to tell me what had happened. Helen had apparently agreed to go with Wickham to London on the Monday night in the belief that they were to be married on the Tuesday morning. Wickham had told her that he was acquainted with a London bishop and that there would be no difficulty procuring a special license. The attendant secrecy would, he assured her, make everything more romantic and when Helen returned with a ring on her finger, all would be forgiven—her aunt and sister would almost certainly “come round.”
Once in London, he had taken her to the house of a Mrs. Younge in Edward Street. It was by then too late for him to call on the bishop, but in the meantime he considered himself most solemnly bound to her—he was her husband in all but name and in God’s eyes therefore their union was already sanctioned.
At this point in her narrative, Cassandra reached for the coffee-pot. “I am sure I do not need to go on, do I? You must have read the same stuff in any number of novels. Wickham knew he had nothing to fear—Helen having no male protectors, there was no one to call him to account. And Mrs. Younge was of course his confederate—Helen could not appeal to her.
“In the morning, there was no more talk of calling on the bishop. Helen saw then that she had behaved like a fool and, what was harder for her to bear, that Wickham had proved himself a complete scoundrel. On the journey back to Meryton, they scarcely spoke. At the end, he had the effrontery to assure her that she might rely on his discretion. He even told her that he would always regard her as a friend.”
“And she must be polite to him?”
“She cannot expose him without ruining herself—you must see that. ’Tis the way of the world.”
After a moment I said tentatively: “Perhaps it would be better if she were to go for a governess—for a little while at least.”
The Forgotten Sister: Mary Bennet's Pride and Prejudice Page 17
