Chapter 91
Mary did not come down for tea, or for dinner. Her mother often spoke of going up to her, but Mrs. Gardiner was adamant that Mary must be left alone; and with an ill grace, Mrs. Bennet was at length persuaded that no good would come of berating her daughter any further.
Upstairs, Mary sat at her writing desk. When, so long ago, she had suggested to her mother that she might marry Mr. Collins, she had known nothing of emotions such as those Mr. Hayward had awakened in her.
Even her brief encounter with John Sparrow had only hinted at the depth of feeling that possessed her now.
It had not been so difficult to consider abandoning the idea of love when she had never truly experienced it.
And had her ignorance continued, it was possible she might not have been entirely miserable.
If, by some chance, she had indeed become Mrs. Collins, she thought she would have made the best of things, done everything in her power to make their partnership as pleasant as it could be; and would surely have made a better job of it than Charlotte Lucas.
If she had known nothing else—if she had never had a hint of what real love looked like, she might have been content with the pale facsimile of happiness a pragmatic marriage offered.
But now that she had known Mr. Hayward, it would not do.
Now that she had met a man she truly loved, she could not marry another.
The absence of love was in itself enough to make marriage to Mr. Ryder impossible.
But the more she considered it, the more Mary knew there was another powerful reason why she could not accept him.
He had, as he intended, touched a nerve when he suggested it was her duty to marry him and make him a better man.
Once, that would have appealed to her—once she would have embraced such an invitation with the greatest eagerness.
What had all her hard work and study been for, if not to be directed to some practical application?
And to what more noble purpose could they be put, than the moral and intellectual improvement of another human being?
But she understood now this was no foundation on which to build a marriage.
She did not wish to be her husband’s instructor any more than she wished to be his pupil.
What she sought was a union of equals, a coming together of like minds and sympathetic intellects.
At Longbourn, with the Collinses, she had seen how want of esteem was fatal to a marriage, how it soured goodwill, chilled relations between husband and wife, and snuffed out all sympathy.
She had watched it freeze Charlotte Collins’s feelings, even as it plunged her husband into an unhappiness he struggled either to comprehend or escape.
But that was not the first time she had witnessed the corrosive effects of contempt in that house.
She understood now very clearly how it had poisoned the marriage of her own parents.
Mr. Bennet’s studied detachment, the ironic scornfulness of his teasing, the bitter amusement he took in the failings of others, especially his wife and daughters—all those cruel jibes flowed from the frustrated knowledge that he had married a woman he could never think of as his equal.
Lizzy had once told her, with tears in her eyes, how their father had admitted the truth of this to her, on the day she had sought his permission to marry Mr. Darcy.
“Let me not have the grief of seeing you unable to respect your partner in life.” It was not until this moment that Mary fully understood and felt for herself the significance of his bleak admonition.
She reached out for a pen and paper, pulled both towards her, and began to write.
The next morning, when she came down to breakfast, a letter with her name upon it sat bold and unmissable on her plate.
She swallowed hard; she knew what it was.
She had sent her message to Mr. Ryder last night, had it carried to his apartments by a willing servant for a few shillings and a bottle of beer.
She had written because she did not feel equipped for the strain of another interview and hoped that, in a carefully composed note, she stood a better chance of conveying both the strength of her regard and the finality of her refusal.
She picked up the letter and slipped it into her pocket, hoping that as she was the only person at the table, it had not been noticed. But just as she thought she was safe, her mother came into the room. She sat down quite calmly and poured herself some tea.
“Good morning, Mary. I was here a moment ago, and I saw you had a letter. May I trouble you to know who it was from? Did it come from Mr. Ryder, by any chance?”
“Yes, Mama, it did.”
“I imagine it is in reply to a letter you have already sent him. Which presumably contained your answer to his proposal?”
Mary picked up the teapot with as much steadiness as she could muster. Now that she had made her decision, she must not waver under her mother’s angry stare.
“I am astonished you did not show it to me before you sent it. Am I permitted to know what you told him?”
“I thanked him for the honour he did me in asking, but I explained that I could not marry him because I did not love him. I hoped we might continue to carry on as friends, if he wished to do so, and added I was sure he would have no trouble in finding very soon a lady who would be delighted to be his wife.”
Mrs. Bennet sat very still. From down the hall, one of the Gardiner boys was heard calling to his brother.
“Prettily written, but then you always were a dab hand with a pen. Although I must tell you it is without doubt the most ridiculous and harmful piece of work you have ever produced.”
Mary steeled herself to keep her composure. She would not be intimidated by her mother’s disdain.
“I made no secret of what I intended to write.”
“You did not attend to any of my objections.”
“I listened to what you said with the greatest attention, but I am persuaded I have done the right thing.”
“I always knew you to be a stubborn, contrary girl, but I did not think you a fool.”
Mrs. Bennet poured herself a little more tea. Her hand, Mary saw, did not shake at all.
“You have thrown away your last and best chance of a comfortable settlement. I have no idea how you plan to live. I suppose you must fling yourself upon the charity of your sisters, for I cannot help you. What you intend to do with yourself for the rest of your life I can’t imagine.”
She reached for a piece of bread.
“Nothing to say, miss? Well, perhaps you are right to stay silent. You have made your bed and must lie on it. I did everything a mother could to help you—no-one could have done more—but my efforts were not wanted. I shall go back to Jane immediately. Perhaps there my advice may still have some value.”
“I am sorry, Mama, if I have angered you.”
“I am beyond anger, Mary. I wash my hands of you.”