Chapter 36
In the weeks that followed, Mary’s days took on a pattern that suited her very well.
She breakfasted in her room, staying aloof from the early morning bustle of the family, joining Charlotte only when the floors were swept, young William fed, and that night’s dinner ordered.
When everyone else was busy, she sat at the old familiar piano and played for as long as her fingers would allow.
At Longbourn, there was neither competition for a seat at the keyboard nor any risk she would be mortified by the superior skills of another.
In the afternoons, she tried to be useful, following Charlotte into the garden in a borrowed apron, pruning knife in hand; sometimes she carried a basket to the poultry yard to gather eggs.
Each day was perfectly uneventful; and slowly, the despair that had come upon her in Derbyshire began to lose the sharp edge of its pain.
Now it was a dull ache of sadness which she was resolved to conquer if she could.
At the dinner table, she forced herself not to think of how it had looked when she and her sisters crowded around it; and when she saw Charlotte sewing in her mother’s chair, sitting exactly as Mrs. Bennet had done in order to catch the light, she compelled herself not to turn away.
But for all her determination to accustom herself to the new order of things, she still felt a pang of grief when she walked past her father’s library, which she had not yet had the courage to enter.
And she declined to accompany Charlotte on social visits, knowing herself not yet ready to brave the curiosity of her old neighbours, who would demand to know, with no sense of delicacy, what she intended to do, where she planned to go.
As she had no answer to give, she preferred to avoid all such encounters whenever she could.
Still, in general, she found the steady routine of life at Longbourn congenial enough.
No-one harassed or teased her; and she never felt exposed or out of place.
Charlotte was solicitous but not overbearing, and Mary began to enjoy her company.
It was some time before it occurred to her just how much of Charlotte’s time was available to her.
One afternoon, as they were cutting the last of the tulips to take into the house, it struck Mary how rarely they encountered Mr. Collins and how very little time he and his wife spent together.
“I imagine,” she asked tentatively, “that Mr. Collins is very occupied with business during the day?”
“He certainly has a great deal to do,” replied Charlotte. “The time of a clergyman can scarcely be called his own.”
“But even when he is at leisure, he rarely joins us here or walks with us in the evenings. Does he like to be so solitary?”
“I do not think he minds it. He is at present very taken up with making a little arbour near the orchard. It was a suggestion of mine he has quite seized upon. He is doing much of the work himself, which is most beneficial for his health. I hope to have a seat placed there when it is finished.”
“Should you like to go and help him, Charlotte? I am very happy to continue here alone.”
Charlotte reached out and grasped a particularly fine bloom, snipping it briskly through the stem.
“No thank you, Mary, I am very well where I am. We shall all meet again for dinner soon enough.”
Seeing there was no more to be said, Mary put down her scissors, gathered her flowers into an orderly bunch, and began to walk back to the house.
As she rounded the yew hedge, she caught sight of Mr. Collins in the distance.
With his coat off, and his shirtsleeves rolled up, he was digging at the ground with a furious intensity.
She watched him until he threw down the spade and, wiping his brow with his sleeve, leant disconsolately against the garden wall.
He did not look happy. Mary turned away abruptly, keen he should not see her.
It was an unsettling encounter; she felt almost as though she had intruded on some private grief.
Over the next few nights, she watched her hosts with a new awareness.
Charlotte was as unruffled as ever, smilingly deferential to her husband.
But the more Mary studied him, the more uneasy Mr. Collins seemed.
Mary saw how often he tried to catch Charlotte’s eye, or to engage her in conversation, and how with every appearance of politeness, she always avoided him.
Eventually, disheartened, he said no more, but looked away in silence.
Mary had no doubt now of his state of mind.
She was too familiar with the experience of misery not to recognise its familiar marks on another.
But what, she asked herself, had Mr. Collins to be unhappy about?
He had a comfortable home, the wife he had wanted, and a healthy son in the nursery.
What could have lowered his spirits to such a degree?
It was true Charlotte was not the most demonstrative of spouses, and did not seem much given to public displays of affection; but she always showed the utmost consideration for his wishes, and no hint of irritation or ill-temper ever escaped her lips.
Mary’s own parents had not always lived well together, but the causes of their dissatisfaction had been easy to understand, and all too forcefully expressed.
Whatever troubled Mr. Collins was not nearly so apparent.
Perhaps it had nothing to do with his circumstances.
Perhaps his character had a disposition to melancholy.
Even in her limited experience of life, she had observed that some people were miserable in the midst of prosperity, whilst others remained cheerful in even the harshest of conditions.
Lydia, for example, was never really cast down, even though her circumstances could hardly be described as easy.
Whereas she herself … She did not like to complete that thought, preferring instead to ask herself the question in more abstract terms. How, she mused, are we to understand happiness, and the ways in which it is brought about?
Is it determined by inherited temperament?
Or is it all a matter of chance, a quality arbitrarily bestowed on some but not on others?
Do our circumstances matter? Are beauty and wealth more likely to produce happiness than goodness and self-sacrifice?
And is there anything an individual can do to improve their own sense of contentment and satisfaction?
As Mary considered these questions, it occurred to her that she might usefully pursue them further.
It had been some time since she had applied her mind to a weighty intellectual question; and this one seemed especially suited to her current circumstances.
Her father’s library was particularly well provided with the philosophical works she would require, and there were no other calls on her time to distract her.
Besides, she felt ready to exercise her reason again, to pit it against a challenge which would call on all her resources of concentration and effort.
She did not deny that there was also a more personal application to such a study.
An exploration of the nature of happiness could add to her understanding of her own situation, and might even counter her own strong tendency to despair.
The following afternoon, as Charlotte stood in the hall, tying on her hat in preparation for a visit to Lady Lucas, Mary asked if she might have permission to spend a few hours in the library whilst she was gone.
Young William gambolled about their feet, banging his favourite toy on the stairs. Charlotte scooped him up, laughing.
“I cannot imagine why the peace of that comfortable room could possibly be preferred to an afternoon with my mother and this monster of a boy! But, really, there’s no need to ask. Please make use of it whenever you choose.”
By the time the front door closed, Mary was already inside the library.
For a moment, she stood quite still, surveying the room where she had spent so many hours.
There was her father’s desk, cleared now of his books and the muddle of papers that had always covered it.
What had he been reading, whilst he sat there, inscrutable, amused by some secret joke, and unreachable to everyone but Lizzy?
Mary would never understand now what this place had meant to him and how he occupied his mind within it.
She walked with as much self-possession as she could muster to the bookshelves.
It felt strange to search them without feeling his eyes upon her, no longer apprehensive that she would irritate him by taking too long or making too much noise.
She moved amongst the shelves with a quiet, determined freedom until she finally found what she wanted.
Then she sat at the table she had always used and began to turn the pages of her book.