Chapter 51
When they arrived back at the house, Mary went straight to her bedroom.
She lay on her bed thinking until it was almost time to go down for dinner, when she roused herself and made her way to the wardrobe.
Wrapped in tissue paper at the back was the gold-and-cream dress.
She took it out and draped it on the back of a chair, where it shone palely in the gathering dusk.
She lit two candles and placed them by the large mirror, then stood in front of it, staring at her reflection, examining her hair and her figure.
She held the dress up before her, and even in the darkening room, she could see how it flattered her.
Suddenly inspired, she struggled out of her faded brown printed cotton, and threw the gold gown over her head.
She could not manage the ties at the back without help, so she left them undone.
She threw back her shoulders, as she had seen Lizzy do, straightened her back, and held her head up high.
She forced her features into a different expression, less abject, more assured.
She could hardly believe the improvement it made—for an instant, she was a different person altogether.
Mary sat down at the dressing table, her mind racing.
She had been struck very forcibly by her aunt’s words about self-respect, especially as they resembled so closely those used by Charlotte Lucas at Longbourn.
“It is my situation I dislike, not myself.” Mary knew the same could not be said of her.
She had been told so often she was a failure that she had come to believe it.
A woman with her disadvantages did not deserve to wear handsome clothes.
Nor was she entitled to enjoy the other pleasures that made life worth living—love and affection chief amongst them.
From these too she was excluded, and nothing, she had told herself, would change this or make the slightest difference to her future.
This was how, for as long as she could remember, she had been accustomed to think; but Mrs. Gardiner’s cool reasoning had somehow robbed this familiar dark vision of much of its power.
For the first time in years, Mary found herself questioning why she had so willingly resigned herself to such a miserable fate.
Where was it written that her destiny was fixed?
Why should she not, by her own efforts, seek to change it?
She shivered, and knew her tremor indicated something more than the chill of the room.
It was shock too—the shock of understanding that the gloomy certainties which had sustained her for so long were loosening their grip upon her.
She pulled the gaping dress around her to prevent it slipping off her shoulders and put her head in her hands, trying to think.
Suddenly, the line which Mr. Collins had transcribed for her burst into her mind.
“Happiness depends on ourselves.”
The saying was familiar enough. She had read it many times and had even copied it into her book of extracts.
But as it ran through her head, she realised that she had never really absorbed its meaning.
It had made no impact on the way she thought of herself.
In that respect, her mother’s ideas still loomed larger than those of Aristotle.
She had been unable to free herself from Mrs. Bennet’s conviction that happiness arose from drawing the winning tickets in the lottery of life, especially those of a pretty face and a graceful figure.
Then she arrived at Gracechurch Street and everything changed.
There she saw what true happiness looked like; and for the first time in her life, she understood what it felt like to be wrapped in its embrace.
At Pemberley, she had been an observer, watching the contentment of others from the margins, but in the Gardiners’ home, she was included, invited in, and immersed in their kindness.
For a while, she had allowed herself simply to bask in such an unfamiliar pleasure; but it had not been long before her enquiring mind awoke, and she began to look around Gracechurch Street with a questioning eye, asking how the Gardiners had achieved their happy state.
It was only now that she finally grasped how it was done; as she saw, with a flash of comprehension, that Aristotle had a far better idea of how happiness was to be achieved than Mrs. Bennet.
The happy contentment which defined life at Gracechurch Street was not the product of beauty, wealth, or luck.
It was true the Gardiners enjoyed some marks of good fortune—a comfortable income and good health chief amongst them—but none of them was outstandingly handsome, and they possessed no broad acres or rolling parklands.
In fact, thought Mary, it might be argued that many of the same advantages from which they benefitted had been equally bestowed upon Longbourn—but without producing a comparably happy state.
No, she decided, her ideas solidifying in her mind—the difference was that the Gardiners worked hard at the business of happiness, exerting themselves tirelessly to coax it into being.
They did not consider happiness a matter of chance or destiny.
Instead they did everything in their power to cultivate it, prizing generosity over petulance, preferring kindness to umbrage, and always encouraging laughter rather than complaint.
The result was the happiest home Mary had ever known.
If anyone might be said to have made their own happiness, she concluded, it was her uncle and aunt.
She sat up straight, alert and thoughtful.
If her uncle and aunt could do it, why should she not follow their example?
She was a good scholar—and surely this was only a different kind of lesson that she could train herself to learn?
She might begin by adopting some of the habits of mind that served them so well.
None of the Gardiners were ashamed of themselves.
Perhaps she could persuade a little of their confidence to attach itself to her?
She could try and smile more and frown less, telling herself that not everything she said was dull and awkward.
It would not be easy to shift the inclinations of a lifetime; but she was sure she was ready to try.
Excited, she walked to the window and pushed up the sash, leaning out into the darkening evening.
The lights of the Gracechurch Street shops glowed yellow and the smell of coal smoke hung acrid in the air, but she did not mind.
She had never expected she would grow to love London.
But its sights and sounds, which had once seemed so overpowering, now seemed exhilarating and full of promise.
She could not remember when she had last felt so eager, awake, and ready for something new.
She took a deep breath of the cool air and closed the window.
The most important habit to conquer was the habit of misery itself.
Nothing was so inimical to happiness as the settled conviction it was not for her.
It was a conviction that ran very deep in her; but she knew she must fight to rise above it.
As she passed the mirror, she caught sight of herself, her dress hanging loose at her shoulders, her shawl wrapped untidily around her, her face a little flushed from the night air.
She cut a dishevelled figure, she thought, picking up a fold of the glittering gold dress and running it gently through her hands.
The delicate silk felt pleasurable to her touch.
If she was to open herself up to the possibility of happiness, where better to start than with the purchase of some new clothes?
She would write to Lizzy tomorrow, signifying her readiness to accept her kind offer.
She would make sure it was a cheerful letter. She would begin as she meant to go on.