Chapter 30 #2
Mary had looked forward to seeing her again; but when Charlotte sat down at the tea table, it was soon apparent this was not to be the cheerful encounter she had hoped for.
Charlotte came very much in the character of Mr. Collins’s fiancée, rather than an old friend of the family; and Mary was given no time at all to talk to her in private.
Instead, the little party sat in formal state, making conversation that would never have suggested to a stranger that, with the exception of Mr. Collins, these people had known one another all their lives.
Their frosty reception did not encourage Charlotte and Mr. Collins to stay very long.
Once they were gone, Jane and Lizzy soon stole away; and Lydia and Kitty quickly followed.
As dusk fell, Mary found herself alone in the drawing room with her parents.
She picked up her book and tried to lose herself in its arguments, but her mother’s voice, angry and querulous, and her father’s replies, designed to tease and annoy, made it impossible to concentrate.
“It was inexpressibly distasteful for me to have to receive them and worse still to be obliged to be civil to that odious Charlotte.”
“As you didn’t seem to exert yourself overmuch in the direction of civility, it is to be hoped you will recover very quickly.”
“Did you see her looking about the place as if she already owned it? They were speaking very low together in the hall, and I couldn’t hear what they said, but I’m sure they were discussing what they should do with Longbourn when it is theirs. Did you not observe it, Mr. Bennet?”
Mary’s father replied that he had not; but Mrs. Bennet took no notice, and the recital of her grievances went on.
As she sat silently in the corner, it struck Mary with painful force that this was how she would spend the rest of her life.
Her sisters would marry, and she would be the only daughter left at home.
With no-one to talk to and nothing to do, she would be obliged to listen to her mother’s complaints day after day, month after month, year after year.
“Indeed, Mr. Bennet, it is very hard to think that Charlotte Lucas should ever be mistress of this house, that I should be forced to make way for her and live to see her take my place in it!”
“My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for better things. Let us flatter ourselves that I may be the survivor.”
It was as if a great abyss had opened up before Mary, and in it, she saw nothing before her but loneliness.
In the space of a moment she understood how fervently she longed for affection.
She would not say love, for that seemed too much to ask.
A spark of fellow feeling would be enough, a little warmth to make the time pass more pleasurably.
Her books alone, she realised, would never entirely suffice.
Even her music seemed pointless. No-one cared what she played as long as it drew no adverse attention from others.
Her chief purpose in life appeared to be the avoidance of notice.
Her heart contracted with pain; it was almost too much to bear.
“I cannot stand to think that they should have it all. If it was not for the entail I should not mind it.”
“What should not you mind?”
“I should not mind anything at all.”
“Let us be grateful, then, that you are preserved from such a state of insensibility.”
Perhaps Charlotte had made the right choice.
Now she could look forward to a husband and a home, with children perhaps to come.
She would have a position in the world and a purpose in life.
It was true she had paid for her better prospects by marrying a man she did not love, but she did not seem to regret the bargain she had made.
Mary had watched her closely today, observing her already managing Mr. Collins with a smiling deftness, never giving any hint she found his behaviour ridiculous or his presence annoying.
Charlotte was all deference to her husband-to-be; though Mary saw too that she revealed nothing of her real self in his company.
She would never be truly natural with him; she would never pay him the compliment of letting him know what she really thought or felt.
Was that the kind of companionship Mary wanted? A union based on a lie?
She looked around the room, taking in every familiar detail—the curtains faded at the edges by the sun, the stain on the carpet where her father had once spilt a glass of red wine and which no amount of scrubbing could remove—and it seemed as though the walls closed in around her.
She might never escape their confines now.
She had done all she could to act as reason dictated and find a way out—but it had not answered.
It was Charlotte who carried off the prize; it was she and not Mary who had sat beside Mr. Collins all afternoon, with her mild, guarded smile and air of defiant satisfaction, avoiding the touch of his hand as they discussed the arrangements for their wedding.
Charlotte had found her release—and Mary could not blame her for it—but she knew she wanted something more.
Mary had done all she could to suppress it, but she longed to feel emotions that were honest and true, that were not intended to flatter and deceive.
Yes, she could not deny it—she yearned to meet a man who would put an end to her loneliness, who would not think her awkward and plain, who liked the things she liked and did not think them foolish, a man whom she could love and who would love her back in his turn.
She felt almost light-headed as she admitted the truth of it to herself.
But almost as soon as the thought took shape, doubts and fears crowded in upon her.
Where would she meet such a man? Not in Longbourn, that was certain.
And even supposing she did, why would he look at her?
What had she to offer? It was weakness to entertain such imaginings.
Allowing yourself to think them only made their absence harder to bear.
“How anyone can have the conscience to entail away an estate from one’s daughters, I cannot understand. And all for the sake of Mr. Collins too! Why should he have it more than anyone else?”
“I leave it to yourself to determine.”
Mrs. Bennet was finally silenced. The clock ticked and the fire crackled. Mary closed the book which sat unread before her. She must resign herself to circumstances that were unlikely to change. She rose from her seat, picked up the poker, and began to stir the coals.