Chapter 7 #4
She started and turned. The soft skin about her eyes was swollen and her nose was red and shiny. Her bonnet had fallen back and her hair, which was so blonde as to be almost white, was in disarray. Her cheeks were a strange ashen colour.
“M…Mr…Collins.” She reeled slightly, but was not so far gone that she neglected her curtsey.
“You are a long way from home, Miss Polkington.”
She glanced about as if bewildered by this fact. “I suppose I am.”
“Perhaps you will allow me to escort you home?”
“Oh. No. No. That is, no thank you, Mr Collins. I am…very well here, sir. Very well indeed.”
She was trembling and although I saw her at church most Sundays I now noticed how thin were grown her wrists and how dark the circles beneath her puffy eyes. Her sister had ruined her chances with Mr Barson and she was suffering because of it.
“All the same, I think we should go now,” I said. “It is getting late.”
“I do not wish to go.” She cast a glance at Hock’s Hole. I did too. The breeze was whipping up wavelets that were grey at the tips and quite black beneath. Bottomless, they said it was.
“Your mother will be wondering where you are, will she not?” I asked.
Her mouth trembled. “No.”
“I think she will,” I said. “And your sisters. Your father, too.”
“Let them wonder.” Her mouth made a strange grimace. “It matters not.”
“Miss Polkington, I hope you will forgive me, but you are a young lady and while your father may not object to your coming here alone, I think I would be remiss in my duty as your rector, and indeed, as a gentleman, if I allowed you to remain here unescorted.”
“My father…” Her voice wavered on the word and she paused, closing her eyes briefly; I supposed against her feelings. “Father does not mind my walking alone.” But she dropped the stone she was holding back onto the turf.
Matters hung in some kind of hideous balance and what I said next mattered more than words usually did.
Trafford had a dozen suitable remarks, principal of which was that if her father had been a little less permissive with his daughters, she might not now be labouring under the burden of shame and loss that had brought her to the cold lakeside.
A burden, moreover, which would be loaded ten, nay, twenty-fold upon her family, were she to give in to her feelings and make fact the mortal sin she was contemplating.
A few months ago, I should have given voice to these sentiments, which were fitting and correct, the Church having clear commandments upon such matters. But while I had been Trafford a good deal of late, I had also been Master Willie, and sometimes Jem’s Blackbird besides.
I knew, now, that sometimes a man may say what was in his heart, and it was not in me just then to lecture Miss Polkington about her father’s failings or the additional shame she would visit upon her family if she killed herself.
I felt, instead, that I should give her a way out of this ghastly situation in a manner which would allow her to retain her dignity.
“I think…” I spoke slowly and quietly, for I was not used trusting my impulses with any other than Jem, and my heart was beating fast. “I mean…when I first saw you, I thought that you were gathering stones for your fernery and I…I think that now you have enough.”
“You don’t understand,” she said.
“I think I do.”
“No. No!” She made an odd, unladylike gesture with both hands, as though she would shove me away, though she did not touch me.
I was somewhat vexed to be considered obtuse when I was merely trying to be tactful. I drew myself up. “Miss Polkington, I believe I do understand why you are here, but?—”
“But you don’t!”
“I don’t really believe you are here to gather stones for your fernery.”
“I know that! You said that to be kind. You are kind, sir. But I…I do not deserve it. You…you would not speak to me if you knew.” She hung her head.
I was glad she thought I was being kind, but a familiar heaviness was settling over me for it was clear we were talking at cross-purposes.
Still, she did not know I understood she was there to drown herself in the lake.
Honestly, I despaired of making any person other than Jem understand me.
I either pointed out matters that were too obvious, or I was so subtle as to have my meaning completely misunderstood. Well then, I must be obvious.
“I know why you are here,” I said. “You want to drown yourself in the lake. But you must not, Miss Polkington. Indeed, you must not.”
“It is better so, sir.”
She was not without dignity as she said this, raising her chin and looking me in the eye.
It occurred to me that I could offer to marry her now that Mr Barson would not have her.
She would be grateful, perforce, and therefore humble and unlikely to cause trouble for Jem or to gainsay me in household matters.
But Lady Catherine’s horrified expression popped into my head.
She would not consider any of the Polkington girls suitable for a clergyman’s wife now.
And, in any case, Miss Polkington’s love of ferns could easily extend to vegetables.
Besides, I had already posted the letter to Mr Bennet. Of course, I could not offer.
“No, no,” I said. “I know you have been cruelly shamed and disappointed, but you are young, Miss Polkington, and will recover. If you will not think of yourself, please, I beg you, think of your family. Or of all the good works you might do. And some decent man may yet make you an offer. Of course it will not be Mr Barson, and it may indeed be someone you have heretofore considered beneath you, but, I ween, you?—”
“You don’t understand.” She seemed to wilt. “I can never marry. I am wicked. I have had such sinful thoughts.”
“Yes,” I said, with what I felt was commendable patience. “Self-murder is a great evil. But you have not done it yet.”
“No,” she said. “It is not that.”
I was lost. “Then what?”
“I…I…” Her face went red. “I wished her dead.”
My confusion, if anything, grew greater. Who was she talking about? Had Mr Barson found another so soon? “Who?”
“Her. Patricia. My sister.”
“Oh, I see!” I found myself smiling slightly in relief that we finally understood each other. She misunderstood.
“You think the situation amusing, sir?”
I stopped smiling. “Certainly not. Nothing could be further from my mind.”
“You smiled.”
“Only at your foolishness.”
“Did you not hear me? I wished her dead. Dead. I wished that instead of running off with that awful, awful man, she had died. That’s what I wished.
That she had been kicked by a horse or died of a fever…
and we…we would have mourned her and we would have buried her.
And…Mr Barson…would have…have held my hand, perhaps, and been sorry for me and we would have been sad but then he would have married me, and we would have gone on with our lives, and instead everything is ruined and my sisters will likely never marry either and Mama spends all day in bed crying and will not eat and my aunts do not visit… and…do you not see?”
“You wished her dead. And you think that makes you so wicked that it would be better if you died too.”
She frowned, as if hearing it so plain in the mouth of another made it suddenly less sensible, but she said, “Yes.”
“I think you not so much wicked as logical.”
A wave of colour crossed her face and she glared at me with an expression almost of horror. “Logical? Logical !”
“Yes. Your reasoning is quite sound.”
“Sound! I am a monster. An unfeeling monster.”
“You trouble yourself with what might have been, which I think is your true error. The past is not ours to rearrange and there can be no profit in doing so. But you are not a monster, Miss Polkington. You are quite right. Things would have been better for a great many people if Miss Patricia had died. It would have been a tragedy, certainly, but it would not have had such dire consequences. As it is, you and your family will suffer all your lives for your sister’s transgression, and I expect she is suffering too.
If we weigh all that suffering with the suffering you would have had if she had died, well, I think it is likely that her death would have been preferable. ”
She was staring at me, mouth ajar. She looked very silly, but of course I should not tell her so.
“If anything, you are to be commended, I think, Miss Polkington, for your clear-sighted view of the matter. It is not good to lie to oneself, is it?”
“I…no, sir?”
“No. So let us have no more of this ‘monster’ nonsense. You are just a young female who has had a disappointment, and a cruel one at that. But there is no need to drown yourself for wishing your sister dead. Indeed, I am sure that many in such a position might have wished the same. Instead, you must forgive yourself and resolve to make the best of things. Now, come, you do not really wish to carry all those stones all the way back to Hunsford, do you?”
She began to turn out her pockets. About half-way through the job, she began to weep again, with such ferocity I thought all my arguments had been in vain.
I said ‘come, come’ and ‘there, there’ and presently she ceased weeping and finished emptying her pockets.
I gave her my handkerchief and she washed and dried her face at the edge of the lake. Then we set off for Hunsford.
I had a terrible headache from the strain and did not think I could bear to make conversation. However, with Herculean effort, I began to point out landmarks and to discuss the recent hop harvest and other suitable topics.
She said very little until we came to the lane which led to her father’s house.
Here she bade me farewell, and then, of a sudden, grabbed my hand and said, “Thank you, Mr Collins. God sent you to me today, I see that now. I will do as you have said, sir, and give thanks to Him my whole life and pray for my sister and do good works, sir. I promise it.”
“Oh yes, God.” I realised that I had omitted to mention him, which was surely a mistake.
It was just so difficult to remember all the pertinent details when I was so exhausted and so heavy with the knowledge that Jem and I were no longer in such sympathy as we once had been.
“Yes, yes. Excellent. God. Prayers. Good works. Very good, Miss Polkington.”
“And I will pray for Mr Barson too,” she added, in a low voice, “That he may make a good match soon and be happy.”
She curtseyed and went off down the lane.
I paused long enough to make a note in my little book regarding the likelihood of certain family members wishing errant sisters dead in such circumstances, and the advisability of a clergyman acknowledging that fact so that worse did not follow. Then, duty done, I plodded home to Jem.
I found him at the bottom of the nuttery field where he had been digging out a rotting stump. It was a big job and he had nearly finished. He must have worked hard all afternoon to do so much.
He leant on his spade when he saw me, pulling out his handkerchief and wiping his brow. The blackbird was at his feet, pert as ever, poking about for grubs. I had not known it was possible to be jealous of a bird.
“Are you still angry?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“It matters to you, though, doesn’t it?” I said, “What we do by the brook.”
“Don’t it to you?”
“Yes, but I should rather forego it and know you were safe and well.”
He sighed and leaned more heavily upon his spade. I had seldom seen him look so grave.
“I still don’t see why we should forego it, though, just because I am married,” I added.
“I promise to do all in my power to ensure she is happy and comfortable. If she wishes to read novels or…collect ferns…or trim her bonnets, I shall not gainsay her such pleasures, so why should I gainsay myself?”
His eyebrows rose. “You’re comparing what we do down there with collecting ferns?”
“Yes.”
“Ain’t really the same though, are they?”
“Aren’t they?” I considered his point, but the more I thought about it, the more similar they seemed. Perhaps it was the detail that was confusing him. “I am not especially interested in ferns myself, it is true, but if I substitute ‘growing potatoes’ then I think the two are very similar.”
“Growing potatoes.” He was looking at me sideways, but I could see that somehow his mood had miraculously shifted. He was smiling, almost.
“Well, yes,” I said. “Because both take place out of doors and both in your company. And both make me happy, and I think I should never grow tired of either. So, yes, I think them very comparable.”
He gave a bark of laughter, after which he seemed unable to stop smiling and shaking his head. I smiled because he did.
He said, “You are a cure and no mistake.”
“I am only telling the truth.”
“Aye, I know. Come here. Come closer.”
I did as he said, though I hoped he would not try to touch me, for the nuttery hedgerow had been cut and we were visible from the road if anyone rode past. However, he kept his hands on his spade, and said in a low voice, “I don’t like this marrying business, but you must do as you see fit and then we shall have to see.
And I hope as how you will still be my Blackbird after, but if it don’t seem right when all’s said and done we shall have to think again. Do you see?”
“You are making no promises,” I said, my heart sinking again. “Maybe we can go on as before, even if I am married, but maybe not.”
“That’s the way of it.”
He jerked his spade out of the ground, and began to hack away again. I watched for a while, then turned away, my nose full of the scents of earth and wood and rot.