Chapter 16 #2
Mrs. Bennet never understood her daughter.
Beauty was the only way to secure a wealthy husband, and Mary’s unconventional looks were so unlike her mother’s that the latter preferred to ignore her completely.
Elizabeth often saw Mary hide her face, or, more likely, run to the piano-forte whenever their mother embarked on yet another tirade about her selfish daughters having not secured husbands; about those daughters who were plain, or coughed, or disgraced the family.
Their mother became fixated on her daughters’ marriages, and Elizabeth began to understand Jane’s lament that Mrs. Bennet would bewail the absence of Mr. Bingley, and that Mr. Collins, the Longbourn heir, had switched his attentions from Elizabeth to Charlotte Lucas.
“Lizzy,” said Mrs. Bennet, perhaps for the third time that day, “Mr. Collins was most attentive to you; he even spoke to me of securing your hand. And then I saw you—quite deliberately—introduce him to that conniving Miss Lucas. And now Longbourn is lost to us. And where shall I go, when Mrs. Collins throws me from the house?”
“I am not dead, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet, having just that moment entered the room. “You may find, as luck would have it, that you predecease me—then you should have no worries of being cast into the hedgerows.”
“Oh, my nerves. For you to speak so casually of dying. It is not to be borne. But you must speak to Lizzy, Mr. Bennet. She had no interest in William Goulding—though I suppose he was rather pimply; then to decline Mr. Collins, an excellent match already possessed of a living; then there was that handsome Colonel Fitzwilliam, the son of an earl—oh, don’t deny it, Miss Lizzy; Mrs. Phillips saw you and him riding in a hackney, ever so casual coming from Welwyn.
And where is he now?—in Spain, where you certainly could have caught him.
Mayhap, after Jane, you are the most beautiful of my daughters, now that L—.
Well enough of that, but I fail to see why, if you keep your opinions to yourself, you cannot secure a husband.
You must tell Lizzy, Mr. Bennet, that I cannot afford to keep her on my jointure—she must find a husband. ”
“I am in no hurry to do so,” replied Elizabeth.
“Indeed, Papa appears exceedingly well. ’Tis likely that I will see to his comforts when he is old, and wishes to doze in the great chair in the library.
Then, I could read him Livy, Tacitus and Sallust. No Greeks, I’m afraid, for I have little facility in that language—Latin suits me very well. ”
“And me, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet, kissing Elizabeth on her forehead. “I look forward to the day.”
Mary, who had been hovering by the window with a volume of Fordyce’s Sermons clasped to her chest, ventured a timid observation.
“Mama, I am told that the great Roman ladies were most virtuous and seldom married for love. They accepted what Providence gave them and made piety their chief ornament. Providence will reward us with good men, if only we adhere to propriety and proper decorum.” Her censure of Lydia’s remaining in Spain hung in the air.
This pronouncement was met with silence. Mrs. Bennet, ever impatient with Mary’s learning, merely sniffed and turned her attention to Kitty, who had begun to cough, perhaps from nerves or perhaps, as Elizabeth sometimes suspected, from a desire to be noticed at all.
“As for you, Kitty,” Mrs. Bennet continued, “I trust you have not given up all thoughts of officers. There is still a regiment at Meryton, is there not? You would do well to attend your Aunt Phillips’s card parties. I am sure a little more attention to your dress would not go amiss.”
Kitty, stung by this reminder of her lack of local admirers, subsided into a gloomy silence.
Elizabeth, watching her siblings, felt a pang of sympathy.
The house had grown smaller since Lydia’s departure.
Perhaps Lydia had the right of it—that life in Spain, for all its dangers, was alive, free from the monotony of Meryton’s self-absorbed society.
Only Jane, with her gentle optimism, attempted to keep up the spirits of the family, suggesting walks and reading aloud from the newspapers, though Mrs. Bennet would interrupt with sighs and lamentations: “If only Mr. Bingley would return! If only some eligible young man of fortune would see the beauty of my girls—at least, those that have beauty worth seeing.”
* * *
“There is a carriage turned into the driveway,” said Kitty, looking out the drawing-room window. “Who can it be?”
Thus Mr. Bingley returned to Longbourn. It was as though he had never left. Bingley was all that was cheerful and amiable, though a trifle embarrassed. He was received by Mrs. Bennet with great civility.
“It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away,” said Mrs. Bennet.
He readily agreed to it.
“I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People did say, you meant to quit the place entirely; but, however, I hope it is not true. A great many changes have happened in the neighbourhood, since you went away. Miss Lucas is married and settled. And one of my own daughters attends Lord Wellington’s army in Spain. ”
“Indeed I have heard, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bingley.
“I have it from my friend, Darcy, that Miss Lydia remained to tend the wounded in the army. He said she was greatly admired; that his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam wrote that Miss Lydia was often dining with Wellington’s officers.
She has become quite a favourite—Senorita Lidia.
Under Major Hurley’s protection, of course,” he added rather hastily.
Jane bestowed upon him the warmest smile, blushing ever so becomingly. In one moment, Bingley had restored all her appreciation of his good character; that he had spoken so well of her beloved sister, Lydia, made her love him all the more.
Over the following weeks, the gentleman continued to visit, and was often invited to dine with the Bennets. He could not reciprocate the pleasure, because he had no hostess at Netherfield Park, his sisters having remained in London.
Elizabeth found she had no place in the house.
All of Jane’s attention was directed to Mr. Bingley; as was her mother’s.
Mary played the piano-forte, and Kitty was forlorn, until Elizabeth suggested that she could introduce her to Mrs. Hurley.
If she were discreet, the lady would pass on letters between Kitty and William Goulding.
“But Lizzy, it is so improper, for a woman to write to a single man.”
“I have seen, Kitty, a man worn down by duty, seeing his comrades fight and die beside him—I have seen his face light up with joy when he receives a letter from his wife, his mother, his sister, a girl who waits for him at home in England. William Goulding is a very good man. Even if you and he find you do not suit, you will do him a great benefit knowing that there is someone at home who cares for him, with whom he can share his worries, his hopes, and not always hide the truth, that the next battle, the next skirmish may be his last. You have my permission, Kitty, to love him, and for him to love you in return.”
“You are changed, Lizzy. There is something about Spain that you are not telling us.”
“I cannot dissemble. But I cannot tell you the truth, only a part of it. I have come to realise that a good man, a man who admires and respects you, is something indeed. That it can elevate a woman to achieve great things. I found such a man, Kitty, but through my own acts I lost his respect. Those acts I cannot undo, nor might I wish to. I made my choice, Kitty, and I must not repine.”
Elizabeth burst into tears. The words of the poet Richard Lovelace forced themselves upon her:
“I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved I not Honour more.”
She had a duty, not to her country, but to the men who fought for it—that was her honour.
The next day, she left Longbourn, travelling by post to London.
The trip was scarcely endurable; but she could no longer remain in Meryton with its pettiness, its unthinking selfishness—ignoring the war, squabbling over the length of puffed sleeves, and whether a gown showed too much ankle or stocking.
* * *