Mr. Price called the next day, to Kitty's vast delight, and was shown into the sitting-room with all due ceremony.
"Dear Mr. Price!" Mrs. Bennet thrilled, curtsying very low. "How very welcome you are—how much we have longed to see you! Do be seated, and I will ring for tea."
The gentleman was pleased to do as he was bidden, and took a seat at Kitty's side.
"How did you like the concert last night, Mr. Price?" Mrs. Bennet asked, beaming at him.
"Oh, it was most enjoyable," Mr. Price replied. "One goes to a Bath concert, you know, not so much for the music as for the people; and there were a great many people there to see and speak to."
Mary, who had been engrossed in The Italian, raised indignant eyes at these words. She was on the verge of delivering a strong rebuke; but her only slight acquaintance with the gentleman, and Mrs. Bennet's warning glare, prevented her from doing so.
"We were there with a very merry party," Mrs. Bennet said. "I understand you are acquainted with Dr. Hart and his family."
"I do not know the doctor so well; but his sons and I have a few friends in common, and I have met Miss Hart in company."
Kitty endeavored to steer the conversation in another direction. "Mr. Price has just come from London, Mamma—he was telling me of it only yesterday."
"Indeed! And what did you do there, sir?"
Mr. Price smiled. "As I told Miss Katherine, I had a matter of business to attend to; but of course she would not be satisfied with such an answer, as I am sure you shall not, madam. And so I will add that I went to two balls, and several parties, and dined out every night of the week."
"How delightful!"
"Indeed it was. I have a great partiality for delight and amusement; I should spend every evening at a card-table, and every night in a ballroom, if it were possible. It is only with great reluctance that I face the everyday work of life."
"I understand precisely what you mean, Mr. Price," Mrs. Bennet agreed. "Would we could spend every day in the pursuit of pleasure!"
"That would be a great waste of time," Mary interjected, no longer able to hold her peace. "Pleasure accomplishes nothing. The 'everyday work of life,' as you call it, Mr. Price, is indeed the substance of life; everything else is unnecessary, and ought to be minimized."
"Oh, do hush, Mary," Kitty said crossly. Mr. Price, however, did not appear offended.
"I can see very well why Robert Hart likes you," he said, his lips quirked in amusement. Mary flushed very red, in vexation and embarrassment, and lowered her head to her book again.
Robert Hart, however promising a subject, was not what Mrs. Bennet wanted to discuss at the moment. "Our Mary is of a very serious temperament, Mr. Price," she said, with less bitterness than usual, for her heart had been softened toward her elder daughter in recent days. "But Kitty, I think, is very much of your mind—are you not, my love?"
"Oh, very much," Kitty agreed readily. "I am sure I prefer dancing and dining out to anything else. I should never be content to sit at home every night, as some prefer."
She turned her eyes toward Mary at this last, but her sister affected deafness, and turned another page of her book. Mr. Price smiled at her.
"Then I shall look for you in every ballroom and at every supper-table in Bath, so that we may always enjoy ourselves together."
This was said very gallantly, and Mr. Price—his eyes so blue—looked very handsome in the sunlit sitting-room. Kitty could not help blushing charmingly, and giving him her prettiest smile; and Mrs. Bennet, feeling the great compliment paid to her daughter, beamed and fawned over Mr. Price until the tea was brought in.
Conversation was for a short time halted as the party sipped tea and ate cake and bread; but eventually it must start up again, and Mr. Price's eyes fell on Mary.
"What do you read so closely, Miss Bennet?" he asked genially.
Mary looked up, faintly irritated. "A novel, Mr. Price: The Italian, by Mrs. Radcliffe."
"Ah! You are a reader of novels, then?"
"Not generally," Mary replied, impatiently. "I most often restrict my reading to matters of morality and philosophy." ("Lord!" Kitty sighed.) "But Miss Hart has recommended this novel to me, and I am reading it to oblige her."
"A fine friend you are," Mr. Price said teasingly. "I am sure she will be very obliged."
"Do you read, Mr. Price?" Mrs. Bennet asked. The gentleman laughed.
"Certainly not! I have not the patience for it; no, not even for novels. There seems to me something very dull in sitting down for hours for a time, reading the stories and adventures of other people while having none myself. It is the same, for me, with writing letters—why must I devote my time to detailing the events of my life, instead of living it? My temperament is one that requires frequent action, rather than reflection."
"I am the very same," Kitty said warmly. "Often I find myself so busy with other things that I quite forget to write to my sisters, though I always promise them so faithfully! And I daresay I have not written to Maria Lucas once since we have been in Bath, and I told her I would."
"Then you ought to do so immediately," Mary interrupted sternly. Kitty ignored her, and Mrs. Bennet gave her a scolding tap on the arm.
"But novels, you know, I do like; for sometimes it is nice to consider the life of somebody else. I cannot read very faithfully, as Mary does, but I find nothing so bad in sitting down quietly for a few minutes, and imagining oneself in a different place and situation."
"You have the patience which I lack," Mr. Price acknowledged, smiling at her. "It is much to your credit."
"Kitty has the sweetest, most patient disposition one can imagine," Mrs. Bennet interposed. "She has a taste for every amusement, and is scarce to be found unoccupied."
"You ought to go to London. There, you should find enough amusements to fill all your hours."
"Ah, sir, if only we could! But my husband, who remains in Hertfordshire, has no taste for life in Town, and will not take the girls, or allow us to go without him."
"Could you not go with Mrs. Darcy or Mrs. Bingley?" the gentleman asked keenly. "I understand those families keep very fine houses in Town."
"I am always hopeful that an invitation is forthcoming," Mrs. Bennet replied modestly. "But we have had none yet."
"That is a shame.—One would hope that well-married ladies might be inclined to do something of the sort for their younger sisters."
"Oh, Lizzie and Jane have been very good to us!" Kitty cried, laughing. "You speak as if we have been neglected, when it is not at all so. We are forever visiting Netherfield, and have spent many very pleasant months at Pemberley."
"But Mr. Price means, my dear, that more could be offered than short visits," Mrs. Bennet said, "and I am sure I agree. Indeed, I had every hope of your acquaintance widening substantially when Lizzie and Jane were married."
"It has," Kitty replied, her brow wrinkling. "We are now acquainted with Miss Darcy, and with Miss Bingley and the Hursts; and we have met the Fitzwilliams and the Harts at Pemberley, and through them a great many other families."
Mrs. Bennet wanted to say that she had hoped for acquaintance of a greater sort—for indeed, Colonel Fitzwilliam was only the second son of an earl, and Dr. Hart was only a physician—but she was too delicate to speak so unkindly in front of Mr. Price, and furthermore had no wish to disparage the family of Mary's beau, so relieved was she that such a beau had been found at all. And so she only gave an indifferent "Hmm," and turned away.
"It must be a credit to you, ma'am," Mr. Price said, changing the subject slightly, "that your two eldest have married so well."
If Mrs. Bennet had not already been charmed by Mr. Price, this would have charmed her, for indeed she did consider herself almost entirely responsible for the fortunate marriages of Jane and Lizzie. Without her art and contrivance, she believed, the gentlemen might have entirely overlooked her daughters—and even if Jane's beauty had initially recommended her to Bingley's attention, the girl herself was too shy to impose herself on his notice any further. She was particularly pleased with the manner in which she had established Jane at Netherfield during the first weeks of the acquaintance; and though she could think of no such concrete example in the case of Lizzie and Mr. Darcy, she was sure their match must have been due, in some way, to her influence.
"You are very kind, sir," she simpered. "I must not consider myself too responsible, for indeed these things will happen as they are intended to, without interference from any person. But I do flatter myself that the marriages would not have taken place if I had not ensured them."
"Is that not the duty of a fond mother? I daresay you could have done no better.—And now your thoughts must turn to Miss Bennet, I suppose, and in time you will begin thinking of Miss Katherine in such a way."
"Oh, I have already begun," Mrs. Bennet replied knowingly. "With my youngest girl already a mother, you know, I cannot see Mary and Kitty married too soon."
"And to great advantage; for young ladies, with such an energetic mother and two such generous brothers-in-law, must always have fine prospects."
Mrs. Bennet agreed readily, understanding Mr. Price's words to have a certain hint in them which she was pleased to hear. Kitty, though uncertain what her brothers-in-law had to do with her own marriage, was delighted at the turn of the conversation, though she would rather have been alone with Mr. Price, and heard again those fine compliments which he had so easily paid to her the night before. It was only Mary, whose reading was not so absorbing as to block out the general chatter of the room, who was dissatisfied.
Tea was finished, and the gentleman rose to take his leave with a great many praises of the ladies' hospitality and kindness. He was instructed to call again whenever he pleased, and whenever he was in the neighborhood, and made assurances that he should do so; and so, bidding the Bennets a very courteous farewell, Mr. Price stepped out again into the street.
"He is a most charming gentleman," Mrs. Bennet sighed fondly, watching from the window as he walked down Henry Street.
"I am sure Lydia would be quite jealous, if she were only to see him," Kitty giggled.
Mary heaved a small sigh as she turned another page of The Italian.
She could not deny that she did, as Miss Hart had suggested, find the book interesting. Though she had not the talent of losing herself entirely in fiction, as did some young ladies, Mary found the story at least diverting. She may not have thrilled with horror at the appearance of the ghostly monk, or moaned in distress as Vincentio and Paulo found themselves locked in the stone chamber—that was how Kitty would have read the book—but she kept reading in order to find out how things resolved themselves, and this was proof enough of interest on her part. The morals of the novel, she felt, were very good; she admired Ellena's modesty even in the face of Vincentio's ardent declarations, and she recognized the faults of logic and decency in the behavior of the wicked Marchesa.
But Mary could not view the book seriously. Was she intended to believe that this was a true story—that such abductions and cruelties were common occurences in foreign lands? She could not credit such an idea. It bore very little resemblance to the world she knew. There were no such men and women in real life; heroes and heroines and villains were not to be found in any assembly in England.
Furthermore, she found Vincentio, as a lover, quite foolish. He had fallen in love with Ellena di Rosalba before he ever learned her name, much less her disposition, and therefore he had fallen in love with nothing more than a face. It was all very well for a beauty like Rosamond Hart to read about loveliness engendering eternal devotion; but Mary Bennet was plain, and she recognized that eternal devotion, if such a thing existed, must be built upon a foundation of character and virtue, and a single glance was not enough.
"It is rather silly," Mary said, when Miss Hart pressed her for her opinion of the book. They were alone again at Hart House, Mary at the pianoforte and Miss Hart in the nearest chair.
"Yes," Miss Hart agreed placidly, to Mary's surprise. "I thought you would say so. But you must remember, Miss Bennet, that you are not reading history, and therefore you should expect a certain amount of silliness. Do you not see the value in such a work?"
Mary hesitated. "The moral sentiments are admirable," she admitted, "and the primary characters virtuous, and therefore I suppose the story may serve to reinforce a reader's notions of good and bad. But I do not see why a sermon may not do the same."
"Perhaps it may," Miss Hart said. "But have you never found that you learn better from experience, and not from study?—I suppose you will say 'no.'" She laughed. "Yet a great many people, Miss Bennet, have not your ability to take instruction from sermons alone. They must see good and bad principles acted out, in order to understand how such lessons may be applied in life. A novel affords such an opportunity."
"But it is all fantastic and romantic, and not to be taken as reality."
Miss Hart waved a dismissive hand. "As to that, it is only part of the form—but if you will look at the story in its simplest terms, you will see it is not so fanciful. There are a great many worthy young ladies who fall in love with men far above their station; and there are a great many gentlemen whose families do not at all approve of their choices."
Mary could not disagree with this, having two sisters and brothers-in-law who evinced Miss Hart's claim.
"It is all right for you to speak so, Miss Hart," she replied, "for you have an understanding of the genre, and can distinguish between the fantastic and the realistic. But I must argue that a novel is dangerous for the less critical reader, who cannot tell the difference, and will begin to see ghosts and villains and heroes in every corner.—I speak specifically of my sister, who has been fed too long on romances and now imagines herself in love with every handsome gentleman she sees, however unsuitable. It would be better if she read only sermons and books of instruction, for then she might learn that what is required of a romantic heroine is not often what is required of an honorable young lady."
"Kitty may have a quixotic turn of mind," Miss Rosamond said gently, "but she will learn soon enough what it is to exist in the living world. All that is required is one disappointment—one instance in which she cannot help but doubt her hero."
"I hope that disappointment will not come too late," Mary said severely.
"I am sure it will not," Miss Rosamond answered, smiling at her. "Kitty is fortunate; she has you to look after her."
Mary was not convinced by this. "She has never in her life done as I instructed."
"That does not mean she does not listen to you."
It seemed to Mary that Kitty certainly did not listen to her. The turn of their conversation, however, brought to mind a point she thought prudent to discuss with Miss Rosamond, while they were alone.
"Miss Hart," she said, her conversation taking on a businesslike air, "do you like Mr. Price?"
Rosamond, to her surprise, hesitated. "I do not know him well," she replied carefully.
"You mean to be vague; but I think I can tell that you do not like him," Mary concluded.
"I would not like to speak ill of a gentleman of whom your family seems to have certain hopes," Rosamond answered reluctantly.
"Oh—you need not be afraid of offending me," Mary said, realizing now the reason for Miss Hart's hesitation. "I have no hopes of him, except that he will return to London and marry someone else. I have spent only a few minutes in his company, but I cannot approve of him. His conversation is trivial, nothing but pleasantries, and I have never once seen him engaged in a useful occupation. I doubt very much that he possesses the essential seriousness of mind which will be necessary to preserve Katherine from a lifetime of folly."
Miss Hart gave a startled laugh. "Lord! What reasons you have for disliking people, Miss Bennet," she said, teasingly. "Such crimes may be attributed to half the men in Bath; they are, most of them, idle and pleasant."
"But you dislike him, as well," Mary pressed. Rosamond's smile faded.
"I have no very concrete reasons for doing so," she confessed. "It is only that he strikes me as rather presumptuous."
"This may point to a very serious fault in his character."
"Indeed; or it may only mean that he is awkward, but a worthy gentleman in essentials. I do not know enough of him to speak definitively. Yet am I right in suspecting, Miss Bennet, that you are requesting my assistance in some way? I doubt you would have broached the subject, otherwise."
"I would have you speak to Kitty about Mr. Price, and dissuade her from him," Mary said.
"Is that not an office better suited for her sister, than her friend?"
"Kitty disregards my views on almost every subject, but particularly on marriage. She thinks her own experience (for she has always enjoyed dancing and flirting with gentlemen) lends her greater authority. However, I believe she has greater faith in your opinion than in mine, for you are not so opposed to the ballroom as I am, and I am certain you could easily persuade her to drop the acquaintance."
"That will be difficult to bring about," Rosamond said. "I should not like to behave officiously, or to interfere in a perfectly natural courtship. I know no real ill of the gentleman, and Kitty has already objected to my criticism of him—and that was offered at their first meeting. Now that she has grown to like him better, I doubt she should be so compliant as you suggest."
Mary had not known this, and she fell into a disappointed silence. Miss Rosamond seemed to sense her frustration, for she added,
"But I will speak to her, if you like, and hint that she might turn her eyes away from Mr. Price once in a while—at least until she knows him better."
"Or, better," Mary interjected, "shut her eyes altogether, for the present, and devote her time instead to improvement and education, that she might be better suited for the duties and difficulties of marriage when an appropriate gentleman does offer."
Miss Hart laughed. "I suspect such counsel is far beyond my powers of persuasion, Miss Bennet, but your concern for your sister does you a great deal of credit.—Have we not spoken enough, now? You are here to play, and I am here to listen. Are you going to begin with the Scarlatti?"
That had indeed been Mary's intention, and she settled herself at the pianoforte, allowing herself to forget her anxieties over her sister in favor of mastering a new sonata. Miss Hart, who had taken up a piece of needlework, again proved a most encouraging listener, and the time passed agreeably.
It was not until a full forty-five minutes had gone by that the door to the sitting-room was opened, and Mrs. Anne Hart was shown in by the maid. Miss Hart, with a little exclamation of surprise and pleasure, rose to greet her sister-in-law; and Mary, seeing that they were going to sit down together, was obliged to leave off playing and curtsy to the new arrival.
"I did not know you were coming to see me today, Anne," Miss Hart said, with a warm smile, once greetings had been exchanged and the ladies had sat down again.
"I have been to see your father," Mrs. Hart replied. Rosamond took her hand in concern.
"Are you unwell?"
"No—no—perfectly well," Anne said, though she was rather flushed. Rosamond regarded her seriously for a moment, but something in Mrs. Hart's looks appeared to satisfy her, for she said with a little laugh,
"It is strange to hear you say that, for it reminds me of your first time in Bath, before you and Theo were married. Anne used to have a regular appointment with my father every Thursday," she said, turning now to address Mary. "Yet she would hurry through her examination as quickly as she could, and then come in here and sit all afternoon; for indeed her true object in coming to Hart House was to flirt with my brother, and she gave not a second thought to her health!"
"It was fortunate that I was so devious," Anne answered, with a smile, "or I might yet be imprisoned at Rosings Park."
"Like a princess in a tower," Rosamond mused, "though I could hardly imagine Theo as any sort of prince. He is not particularly valiant."
"And I am hardly a princess," Anne replied drily. "My father was only a baronet."
"I am surprised to hear you speak of Rosings Park as a prison, Mrs. Hart," Mary said stiffly. "My cousin, Mr. Collins, gives me to understand that it is an excellent house, situated on a very fine piece of land, with a charming prospect from every window. My sister Elizabeth also commented on its beauty. I should think one should have only fond memories of such a home."
"Rosings Park is beautiful, yes," Mrs. Hart admitted, "but one must have more than beauty in order to make a home."
It was at this point that Mary recalled what Kitty had once whispered to her, about Anne Hart's estrangement from her mother; and she turned rather pink, realizing she must have unconsciously touched upon a delicate subject.
"Miss Bennet has been talking to me of The Italian," Miss Rosamond interposed, changing the subject deftly. "We have agreed that it is silly, but not entirely without its worth."
"That is an accurate depiction of most novels. Have you yet reached the point, Miss Bennet, where Vincentio comes to rescue her from the convent?"
"Anne, you will ruin it!"
"But of course she knew it must happen," Mrs. Hart protested, laughing, "for it is a novel, and such things must always happen in novels. Surely Miss Bennet did not expect the book to end so, with the heroine languishing in intolerable circumstances and the hero powerless to help her? That may be enough for life, but it is hardly acceptable in a novel."
They conversed upon the topic for a few minutes more. Mary longed to be at the pianoforte again; but something in Mrs. Hart's air intimated that she desired to be alone with her sister-in-law, and Mary had no wish to further impose herself upon the household. She rose, therefore, to take her leave, and was pleased when Rosamond extracted a promise that she should visit again soon, and work some more upon the Scarlatti.
"I thought it sounded quite good," she said cheerfully, "but I am sure your standards are much higher than mine."
Mary thanked her for her generosity, and bid the young lady a rather fonder farewell than she had before; for Miss Hart's agreement with her, upon the troubling matter of Mr. Price, had pleased her almost as much as had that young lady's appreciation of music. It had begun to occur to Mary that, despite her preference for novels over sermons and her great fondness for dancing and laughing, Rosamond Hart did perhaps possess a certain amount of good sense.
The following day brought a heavy gray rain, a portent of the still-distant autumn weather. Mary, who had hoped to walk to Green Park again, was disappointed; but her disappointment paled in comparison to that of her mother and sister, who were beside themselves.
"This rain acts most ill upon my nerves," Mrs. Bennet complained. "Nothing but damp all the day, and not a creature has come near us for a week at least."
"Mrs. Fitzwilliam called only yesterday, Mamma," Kitty reminded her dully.
"Oh, Mrs. Fitzwilliam! What good is Mrs. Fitzwilliam to us? Depend upon it, we shall hear nothing of Mr. Price or Mr. Hart for an age."
"That is as it should be," Mary said decisively. "An inability to be composed except in the company of gentlemen is a sad sign of our dependence upon male attention. We should devote this time to the improvement of our minds, that we may be better suited to endure our current isolation with fortitude."
"Oh, hush, Mary," returned Kitty bad-naturedly. "You wish Mr. Hart would call as much as anybody, for I am sure you never saw him once when you were lately at Hart House. You must be pining for him by this time."
Mary glared at her. "I admit that I should be very glad of his company, if only because I am certain his conversation would be far more stimulating and intelligent than yours."
"Well, Mary," her sad mother interjected, hearing only a portion of Mary's comment, "I am afraid we shall have nothing of his company for quite a long time. Gentlemen do not often walk abroad in such weather."
The rain did offer certain benefits. With no place to go and no company to entertain, Kitty at last found the time to write a letter to Maria Lucas, detailing (though somewhat exaggerating) her adventures and romances, and Mary was able to complete much of The Italian. Only Mrs. Bennet was without any such employment, and she was quite content to occupy her time with making dismal predictions of their being forgotten and neglected by all their friends, and being obliged to return to Longbourn without ever having seen anybody.
"And then it is sure you girls will end up spinsters," she sighed gloomily, "and be a great burden to your father and me forever."
Her daughters, accustomed to such grim prophecies, paid her little attention.
Mrs. Bennet was glad to be proven wrong, however, when Mr. Finch and Mr. Theodore Hart arrived on a wet Saturday, bearing tidings that brought great joy to two of the ladies.
"A ball!" Kitty cried delightedly, the inclement weather forgotten.
"How good of your family to think of us, Mr. Finch," Mrs. Bennet declared graciously.
"We should be most glad if you and your daughters would join us, ma'am," the gentleman said quietly. Mr. Hart smiled at them.
"But of course we shall join you! Nothing in the world could please us better, could it, girls?"
"I am glad to hear it."
"And I am sure," the lady went on, taking on a teasing tone, "that you have already solicited Miss Hart's hand for the first dance, have you not? Do not be coy, sir; I know very well how it is."
She winked at him. Mr. Finch turned rather red; but Kitty, remembering Mr. Price's opinion on the subject, watched him carefully, and could not see the telltale smile or lowered eyes of the bashful lover. Indeed, there was nothing but plain embarrassment in all his looks. She thought, with a wave of sadness, that he must realize the hopelessness of his love.
"I am sure Rose will dance with him," Theodore Hart put in, glancing at his friend, "but she is hardly a stimulating enough partner to hold his interest for all the evening; is that not so, Finch?"
He gave his friend a meaningful look. Mr. Finch coughed awkwardly.
"I hope I shall also have the great honor of dancing with Miss Bennet and Miss Katherine," he said, looking at both of these young ladies in turn. Mary, looking up from her book, opened her mouth to claim that she did not dance; but Kitty, her sympathies awakened by the blush still painting Mr. Finch's features, answered before her sister had the opportunity.
"It would be our pleasure, sir," she said, smiling at him. He looked at her with relief.
"You are very kind, Miss Katherine."
Mrs. Bennet urged the gentlemen to stay for a few minutes longer, but they were not at liberty to do so, for they had more invitations to deliver and the hour was already grown late. "Besides which," Mr. Hart laughed, "if we stayed any longer, our clothes should dry completely; and when we returned to the world again, we should find this rain an even more trying ordeal than we already have. But you are very good, ma'am."
The gentlemen bowed to the ladies most courteously, and hurried out into the downpour.
"Well," Mrs. Bennet said, with great satisfaction, once they had gone. "This is something to lift our spirits, girls, is it not?—I am sorry, for your sake, Mary, that it was the elder Mr. Hart who came with Mr. Finch, and not the younger; but that is at least a certain proof that you shall see Robert Hart at the ball, with all his family. How civil those Finches are! I begin to think Miss Hart shall make an excellent match, for the living which Mr. Finch is to have is a good one, I have heard, and it is only in Larkhall, so she shall be quite close to her family. I always think it is best when a girl settles within easy distance of her family. I dislike very much having Lydia so far away in Newcastle, though I daresay she makes the most of it."
She went on in this vein for some time, though neither of her daughters paid her the least attention. Kitty, considering what she should wear to the ball, was beginning to wonder if Mr. Price would be there; and Mary, guessing what was in her sister's mind, was hoping very much that he would not.
The ball, however, was not for another week; and there were two more days of rain to be had before the sun shone again. Tempers began to flare within the Henry Street house, and when the rain at last lifted, the Bennets were more than happy to go out into the world, and spend some time in other company.
Mary's first object, after being so long indoors, was to make her way to Green Park. Having finished The Italian, she carried with her Foundations of Natural Right; but she could not lose herself in the text as she had on her previous visit to the park. With a little sigh, she shut the book and looked about her. The weather was very fine, even warm, as if in apology for the gloomy days which had preceded this one. The grass shone brilliant green under the beaming sun, and the glittering waters of the Avon looked rather inviting. Ladies were promenading in their summer prints, and a balmy breeze lifted the leaves on the treetops. The coming autumn, predicted by the cold drizzles of the past week, seemed miles away. Perhaps, Mary decided, the day was too fine for reading—this was a thought which had never occurred to her before, but she found herself now somehow dissatisfied with sitting beneath her tree; and she rose to her feet again, to walk along the little paths that ran across the grass and down to the riverbank.
It will come as no surprise to the reader that Mary soon met Mr. Robert Hart in the course of her ramble, for that is the way things always happen in stories. He had as much right and reason to be there as she: having been granted a rare morning away from his father's practice, he had attempted to devote himself to his medical texts, only to find himself lured out-of-doors by the beauty of the day; in short, he had been distracted from his more serious pursuits much as Mary had been distracted from hers, and had elected to forgive himself a morning of comparative idleness.
They greeted each other very amiably. Though Mary had not, as Kitty supposed, been pining for Robert's company, she was glad to see him, for she was certain she had not enjoyed a sensible conversation in all the days that she had been shut up with her family. She was pleased when Robert—who had been walking in the opposite direction—turned to match his steps to hers.
"This is a heavy book," he remarked, taking the text from her. "Is this what you bought at Mostyn's? Juliet brought me the same, but I have not yet had a chance to open it, having been so busy with my studies. Are you enjoying it?"
"I have hardly read beyond the first page," Mary replied, rather embarrassed. "My time has been much taken up with The Italian, which your sister has obliged me to read."
"I had forgotten about that," the gentleman said, with a small grin. "And did you enjoy your first novel, Miss Bennet?"
"I have discerned a certain value in the work—in that work, that is, for I cannot speak for the entire genre—although I found the fanciful nature of the narrative rather off-putting. It detracted too much from the substance of the story."
"Novels, you know, are like a mirror of our society—even in their most fantastic form, they make some comment on the way we live, and the way we are. And it is only through a knowledge of ourselves," he added, smiling at her, "that we may learn how to improve."
"I am willing to agree with you," Mary answered, "particularly on the necessity of self-improvement, but you must admit that it is difficult to find the lesson when it is obscured by absurdity and irrational romance."
"Why did you find the romance irrational?"
Mary paused. Though she still had not detected any particular tenderness toward Robert Hart within herself, she was not accustomed to discussing romance with gentlemen. "It was based on nothing," she said, at last. "The gentleman decided to pursue the lady merely upon discovering her beauty. Such a marriage, I fear, is doomed to failure."
Robert gave a little laugh. "But he also found that she was virtuous, and intelligent, and of fine feelings."
"He was fortunate, then. Besides, virtue and intelligence do not necessarily denote compatability between two people."
"Not even when paired with such a supernatural attraction?" There was a teasing tone in his voice.
"Certainly not. Individual tastes, values, and opinions must be taken into account.—Your sister is very pretty, Mr. Hart, and very good, but that would not make her a suitable wife for a handsome and good-natured gentleman who despises the pianoforte and objects to women reading."
"Just as you, Miss Bennet, could never be happy with a gentleman who dines out every evening and attends weekly subscription balls, however equally matched you may be in intelligence and virtue."
"Quite so," Mary answered primly. "I am sure there is another, unseen chapter to The Italian, in which Ellena discovers that Vincentio brings home ten guests every evening, while she prefers a quiet family supper; and he accepts every invitation which she would rather reject; and he sits through mass every week out of duty, while she attends confession daily out of love; in short, that they are both good people, but their tastes and characters are ill-suited."
"I am sure that there would be far fewer unhappy marriages made, if only everyone shared your insight."
"You are mocking me," she said, frowning.
"I am not; I am in full agreement. It seems you have given much thought to the matter."
Mary was a little appeased. "Marriage is an important subject, and requires a great deal of consideration. Furthermore, I am now nineteen, the age at which most young ladies are beginning to think seriously of their prospects. It is only natural that I should have formed distinct opinions on the subject."
"Are you, then, quite ready to be married?"
She turned to him in surprise, irrationally afraid, for an instant, that she would see in his expression an unspoken question—but there was nothing but plain curiosity, and clear interest, in his gray eyes. Mary hesitated.
"My sister," she began, slowly, "is of the opinion that every young lady is ready to be married, and the matter only depends on finding a gentleman with whom she can fall in love. But I am sure that it is not so simple."
Mary glanced at Robert again. They had paused on the riverbank, and his gaze was directed out at the slow-moving waters.
"I confess," she said, in a low voice, "that I believe myself quite unprepared for marriage. I am too much attached to my solitary ways, and to the liberty of pursuing my own interests and my own passions, day after day. I do not think I could be happy, if I were now obliged to devote myself to someone else, and to have someone else devoted to me. I should find such unceasing attention vexing, at the very least. I have seen happy couples—my elder sisters were both fortunate enough to marry gentlemen very well-suited to them—and while the sight pleases me, as it must please any person of sense and good nature, I cannot yet imagine myself in such a position. I am afraid," she added, "that this is a most unnatural feeling, in a girl of my age; for my mother laments that I should have been married these three years at least. My youngest sister became a wife at the age of fifteen, though I fear her marriage will prove a disappointment to her."
"I am sorry to hear so. Yet perhaps it is a testament to the shrewdness of your feelings: marriage, at such a young age, is often based more upon impulse and attraction than true depth of feeling. My own sister is fifteen now, and I cannot imagine that her choice of husband would be particularly wise; it is a singularly romantic age."
"That is exactly what I mean." Mary, having heard much from her mother and even Kitty on the good fortune of Lydia's impetuous marriage, was glad of Robert's understanding.
"You speak very much in the present tense, Miss Bennet; do you think you shall ever feel otherwise on the subject?—Of your own marriage, I mean, not of marriages in general."
"I am sure I shall," she replied warmly. "I am sure I shall one day tire of my solitary ways, and find myself prepared to join my fortunes with those of another person; the ability to do always as I please, and spend my hours in whatever fashion best suits me, will not be so precious to me. I will instead find myself wishing I were with him, and forgoing my reading in favor of his conversation. But just now, I should not like to be accountable to anyone else, nor to have him accountable to me. Perhaps I will feel differently in a month or two, or perhaps it will be some years. I cannot tell."
"I think you are very wise," Robert Hart said, after a long pause. "I have always thought it strange, that many men do not marry until they are in their late twenties, or even in their thirties and forties; but women are looked at quite askance if they are not wives by the age of twenty-two or so. I believe it is as necessary for women as for men to know themselves before they can begin to know another—to have some time, if I may speak boldly, to be somewhat selfish, and devote their time to their own interests, before it is imposed upon by the duties of marriage. I am certain I could not be induced to marry at present; I shall have no interest for a year or two, at the very least. Twenty is too young to be made a husband."
"I am glad to hear you say so," Mary said, and indeed she was more pleased by his agreement than she could express. "It seems marriage is the only acceptable topic of conversation in my mother's household, and I am grown tired of hearing how perfect a match will be made between Kitty and Mr. Price, or between myself and—"
She stopped suddenly, aghast, having quite forgotten herself and her company; he looked at her with a small smile, an eyebrow raised. Mary's face colored very red, and she looked away; but, to her great relief, Robert made no attempt to urge her on, and instead said mildly,
"I understand your feelings. I suppose I am quite fortunate, for my father takes little interest in the romantic affairs of his children. It is only my brother and sisters who make hints, sometimes; but Theo and Helena may be excused, for they are each married, and married people have little occupation besides attempting to prod others into the state."
"And your other sisters?"
"Juliet is too young to take much notice of things beyond her own concerns. Rosamond encourages me in certain directions, but drops the subject once I begin questioning her on her own prospects."
"That is wise of her," Mary said.
"Indeed, for I have all the relentlessness of an elder brother, and all the intuition of a twin."
"Are you the elder?"
"By a few minutes, only; and yet you may believe it is a fact which I frequently hold over my sister's head."
Mary gave him a little smile, glad that their conversation was moving away from the topic of marriage; for despite the unexpected pleasure of Robert's agreement with her own views (which she had been used to think so strange, so alien to anybody of her acquaintance), the embarrassment of her near-indiscretion was very much with her. She had no doubt that Robert had recognized his own name in her abrupt pause—Mrs. Bennet's behavior to him, and even Kitty's, had surely hinted to him their intentions—and she thought it very well-mannered and gentlemanlike of him to ignore her carelessness. Unexpectedly, a little swell of fondness for him rose in her chest.
Green Park was only a very small park, particularly when compared to the meadows and forests of Hertfordshire, and it was not long before they had walked up to the little lane that led to James Street. Mary looked back over the park with a small sigh, for she had no real desire to return again to Henry Street, where the Finches' ball would be the only topic of conversation for the foreseeable future. Robert appeared to notice her unhappiness, for he said gently,
"Miss Bennet, you are a creature of the countryside, and cannot spend your next months in Bath with only Green Park for solace. Surely you will grow tired of the view here, and will long for some other green place where you might be quiet. Would you permit me, over the next few days, to show you some of the other parks in the area, so you may at least have some variety?"
This proposal was indeed very agreeable to Mary, and she was pleased to accept. It was arranged that they would walk out again on the day after next, after Robert had completed his duties at the surgery.
"We will go to Henrietta Park," he decided, "for it is not far from your lodgings, so you shall be able to find it again without difficulty."
Their meeting was fixed for the afternoon; and these arrangements settled, they parted as pleasantly as they had met. Mary was able to return to her mother and sister with greater fortitude, for though she would hear of nothing but frivolity for the next days, she could look forward to at least one afternoon of sensible and interesting conversation.