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.