Two Years Later
Mary had brought a book with her, but the jolting of the carriage made it impossible to read. For a while she tried her best, anxious to have something to occupy her mind; but after an hour or so, she gave up and threw the book aside. She wiped the corner of the dirty window with her handkerchief and watched the countryside pass by. They were not far from Longbourn now. Every house, every cottage, every hedgerow was familiar. There was the orchard where the best plums were to be had. There was the field where the bull had charged the cowman’s son who had distracted it with his hat. And there was the path to Meryton, down which she had so often walked, trailing behind Kitty and Lydia, wondering what she should do with herself while they rushed into the milliner’s shop to spend their allowance. The landscape looked as it had always done. But for the family who had once lived so quietly in this damp green corner, everything was different. Mary stared at the trees, her inward eye recalling the events which, one after another, had shaken them up and turned them inside out.
Lydia’s elopement with Mr Wickham had been the first of the dramas. Lydia had always been wild and impulsive; but no one had imagined her thoughtlessness would have quite such far-reaching consequences. When news of her flight first broke upon them, there had seemed nothing to be done. Mary still recalled her father’s defeated look as he trudged into the hall at Longbourn, returning empty-handed from a fruitless search for the couple in London, his eyes bleak, his face grey, his habitual expression of ironic detachment quite extinguished.
Then, against all expectations, a marriage ceremony had been somehow arranged, the slippery Mr Wickham bribed or threatened into walking an eager Lydia up the aisle. At first, it was not known how it had been contrived. The revelation that it was Mr Darcy to whom the Bennets owed their youngest daughter’s hurried nuptials was received with as much, if not perhaps more astonishment than Lydia’s actual running away. It was hardly to be wondered at that the family prejudice against him ebbed away somewhat as a result; but, with the possible exception of Jane, none of the Bennets foresaw what was to happen next. No one could quite believe it when Elizabeth confessed that Mr Darcy had made her a proposal of marriage; and they were even more astounded when she announced she had accepted him. Mary was incredulous. How could she marry a man she had always declared to be proud, cold, and disdainful? Lizzy insisted he was not like that at all – she had misjudged him – pride had blinded her to his true nature. She argued the case for his virtues with all the warmth with which she had once denounced his vices, and gradually her passion turned the tide of family opinion. Once the fact of Lizzy and Mr Darcy’s love for each other had been acknowledged – for no one who saw them together could believe it was not so – their union seemed as inevitable and as right as that of Jane and Mr Bingley, which took place with similar haste, none of those involved seeing any reason for delay.
The weddings had rendered Mrs Bennet almost speechless with joy. Three daughters married in the course of a year, the two eldest to men of consequence and standing. It was everything she had always hoped for. Neither she nor her remaining daughters would starve or be thrown upon the parish; she could hold up her head once more amongst her friends and enjoy the superiority she felt was her due. In no time at all, her manner toward Lady Lucas was again one of condescension, for the mother of the mistress of Pemberley had nothing to fear from the parent of a mere Mrs Collins. When Kitty was claimed the following year, by a respectable clergyman with a handsome living, her satisfaction was complete. The triumph of her eldest daughters’ marriages enabled her to turn her head away from the irregularities of that of her youngest. Mrs Bennet never spoke of the way Lydia’s marriage had been brought about, nor of the rackety existence which Mr and Mrs Wickham subsequently led, moving from place to place, never settling and always in need of funds. Sometimes she sent Lydia small gifts of money to help her in any immediate difficulty, but she always made sure Mr Bennet knew nothing of it. His sympathy for the misfortunes of their youngest daughter was never as extensive as her own, especially when he was called upon to express it in pecuniary form.
With her sisters gone, Mary soon felt herself sinking into the existence she had so long dreaded. Her days went by with little variety. She studied, and she practised at the piano, her music echoing through the empty house. But she quickly discovered she had less time for her pursuits than before, for Mrs Bennet could not bear to sit alone for long and found even Mary’s company preferable to her own. These were the hours Mary found hardest, for her mother had nothing to say to her, and in the absence of any affectionate kindness, readily fell back into querulous complaint. It was a relief to them both when Mrs Phillips called, for then Mary was permitted to retreat to the library. Her aunt’s voice, however, was loud and carried far beyond the drawing room; and it was by this means Mary discovered how her situation was viewed by those who considered it at all.
‘What a blessing it is for you to have Mary still at home,’ observed Mrs Phillips one airless afternoon. ‘I’m sure you would be quite solitary without her.’
‘Perhaps,’ replied Mrs Bennet, unconvinced. ‘Although she has no conversation of the kind I enjoy.’
‘But it must be easier for her now that she’s no longer mortified by comparisons between her sisters’ looks and her own. That cannot have been easy for a young girl. Now she will be judged on her own terms. And who knows where that might lead?’
‘You have always spoken in her favour, sister, and I thank you for it. But I see no likelihood she will change her situation anytime soon. She and I must rub on together for a few years yet. It is a burden I must learn to bear. Will you have a little more tea?’
Mary tried not to brood too much on what the future held. She was more of her mother’s opinion than her aunt’s; and considered it a day well spent if she got through it without falling into despair. But then, when it was least expected, an event took place which overturned forever the fragile certainties on which Longbourn had been balanced for so long, shattering the expectations of both mother and daughter. The existence of the entail had made Mr Bennet’s death the subject of much conversation over the years, but it had been so often talked about that no one had supposed it would actually occur, or not, at least, for many years. When he died in his sleep, with no warning of his impending end, the shock to his family was as dreadful and as surprising as if its possibility had never been mentioned before.
The distress of his wife and daughters was severe and sincerely felt. None of them could imagine life without him; but all the sisters except Mary had husbands to comfort them, and new obligations to fill the place he left in their hearts. On the day of his funeral, Mary took from her drawer the little book of extracts she had composed for him with such hopeful affection, held it in her arms, and cried without restraint. She would never now enjoy the satisfaction of having pleased him, of seeing his eyes light up in pride at something she had done. It was true such a possibility had appeared increasingly remote as the years went by; but she had never quite given up the hope that one day it would happen. The certain knowledge that now it could never do so was perhaps the sharpest pain that grieved her.