Chapter 7 #2
When Mrs. Hill had gone, Mary lay on her bed, looking at the ceiling and brooding on what she had heard.
Mrs. Hill’s enthusiasm had piqued her curiosity, and she began to question her resolution not to attend the dance.
Perhaps she was wrong to stay at home. It might be exciting to go out into the cold autumnal darkness, squeezed into the hired carriage with her sisters, bumping along the road to Meryton.
She had never seen the assembly rooms at night, lit up and garlanded with paper flowers and the first of the winter holly.
She thought she might like to hear the orchestra scrape out the old familiar airs and jigs and watch people enjoying themselves.
Really, why should she not go? It was only a country dance.
Other girls of her age had been and lived to tell the tale, and not all of them were beauties.
And was it not said—although she could not, at this precise moment, recollect by whom—that, to the thinking mind, no experience was wasted?
In half an hour, she had almost persuaded herself it was her duty to attend.
And if she did go, then surely she was obliged to have a dress suitable for the occasion?
If one went into society, it was only proper to abide by its rules.
For the first time she could remember, she allowed her imagination to run away with thoughts of beautiful fabrics and elegant clothes, of colours, styles, and trimmings.
Just before she fell asleep, she finally concluded that Mrs. Hill was quite right.
It made no sense to deny herself this opportunity.
For once, she would see a little of life, and moreover, she would make an effort to present herself as neatly, as smartly, and as becomingly as she could.
She would go to the dance and have a new dress for it too.
For once, she would try to enjoy herself, as she had seen others do.
At breakfast the next day, it was clear to everyone that Mr. Bennet had delivered his judgement; and Lydia’s triumphant bearing made it plain that he had decided in her favour.
She could barely contain her excitement, which interrupted but did not entirely prevent her rapid consumption of hot rolls and butter.
“Thank you, Papa, thank you, thank you. I swear I shall love you forever now.”
Mrs. Bennet, entirely satisfied, smiled broadly at her favourite daughter; but her husband looked grave.
“Your gratitude gives me more pause for thought than your petulance ever did. I am not at all sure I was wise to give in to you.”
Mr. Bennet was a man of considerable natural perception, and there were few situations in which he did not understand what was required of him; but exertion bored him, and he could rarely be bothered to act, even upon what he knew to be right.
He found it far easier to mock his daughters than to take the trouble to correct them.
Only for Lizzy did he feel any real respect, which was perhaps why she alone felt able to challenge him.
“Then, Papa, why do you do so?” she asked. “A little firmness on this occasion might impress upon Lydia that not everything is to be had by making a fuss.”
“Really, Lizzy,” cried Mrs. Bennet, “you sound just like Mary! And what, pray, has it to do with you anyway? I shall be there to look after Lydia and Kitty and make sure they behave exactly as they should.”
Mr. Bennet laid down his knife and regarded the table with bitter satisfaction.
“You see, my dears, there is no need for concern. Your mother, with her usual decorum, will ensure that neither silliness nor self-indulgence will prevail.”
Mary saw Elizabeth catch Jane’s eye and watched a glance pass between them—of anxiety, regret, pain—a whole host of emotions in one brief look. Her younger sisters were oblivious. Lydia had quite recovered her usual confidence and was blithely helping herself to more tea and more jam.
“Kitty must come as well,” demanded Lydia. “If I am to go, it would be monstrously unfair if she did not.”
Kitty nodded furiously, her mouth full of roll. But before she could utter a plea in support of her case, Mary decided to make her own announcement.
“I think I should like to go too, Papa, if there is no objection to my doing so.”
“You want to go?” exclaimed Lydia, genuinely surprised. “Whatever for?”
“I think it is time I saw something of the world.”
Mary had resolved to say no more than this. She had no intention of being teased by Lydia into offering a fuller explanation of her decision. Nothing on earth would have forced her to admit that she had actually begun to look forward to the ball.
“Of course you may go,” replied Mr. Bennet testily.
“Everyone may go who wishes to go, providing I am obliged to hear no more about it. But, Mrs. Bennet, you are to understand there is no point in applying to me for funds to buy new outfits. I will underwrite a few fripperies, ribbons, and feathers, I suppose, but that is the limit of my generosity. There will be no incontinent purchasing of gowns, shawls, shoes, and the like.”
Lydia, Kitty, and their mother were equally distraught to hear this; but Mr. Bennet was implacable.
“No, no, not another word. I have already been persuaded once to act against my inclination. On this subject, I am immoveable.”
“I have some little money saved,” said Mary thoughtfully. “I never spend my allowance, so I think I shall have enough for a dress, if it can be made in time.”
Lydia glared from across the table. “Lord, you really are the most annoying prig!”
“That may be true,” said Mary, quite calm now. “But at least I shall have the satisfaction of being a prig in a new dress.”
Later that morning Mary and Mrs. Hill walked into the draper’s shop at Meryton, and there they found a figured muslin of the palest cream—white would be too harsh for Mary’s complexion, insisted Mrs. Hill—shot through with a faint gold thread.
Mary thought it the most beautiful stuff she had ever seen, fingering its delicate weave with a respectful touch.
Once wrapped up, she refused to hand over the bulky parcel to Mrs. Hill, but carried it home herself, both proud and a little fearful that she had taken such a huge step.
In her bedroom, she discussed with Mrs. Hill how it was to be made up.
It was impossible to ask advice from her sisters.
With Jane or Elizabeth, she would have been too self-conscious; and it was far too late to attempt such a conversation with Kitty or Lydia.
They would have laughed at her uncertain attempts to find a style that suited her.
Besides, her taste did not run towards the flounces and ruffles that delighted Lydia.
On her they would look false and wrong. She would be most at ease in a simple dress that did not announce itself too loudly.
Perhaps, she thought, a plain dress was the best ornament for a plain woman?
In ten days, it was ready. The dressmaker brought it at dusk, delivering it as she had been asked directly into Mrs. Hill’s hands—Mary had no wish for her sisters to see the gown before she did.
Hurrying up the stairs to her room, with Mrs. Hill following in her wake, she was breathless with excitement.
Once inside, she lit a candle whilst Mrs. Hill locked the door.
Her hands fumbled with the string of the parcel, but she soon had it open.
When she held up the dress, it tumbled over her arms, the gold thread catching the gleam from the candlelight.
It was as airy and delicate as a cloud, utterly unlike the well-scrubbed grey and beige cottons which she usually wore.
Yes, it was plain, with no decoration to distract the eye; but there was a purity in its plainness, an elegance in its simplicity.
“It has turned out very well,” said Mrs. Hill. “Very well indeed.”
Mary held the dress up in front of herself, and peered into her mirror.
“Is it too fine for me, do you think? Shall I look ridiculous?”
“No, you will not. I believe you’ll look very handsome in it.”
Mary looked shyly at her reflection. She would not go as far as handsome, but she thought she would not stand out as awkward or strange; and that was enough for her.