Chapter 18: A Restorative Balm is Applied
But indeed, as the days passed, and Mary's departure loomed ever nearer, such affectations of indifference became increasingly more strenuous to maintain. It was all well and good to repeat to oneself, confidently and certainly, one's apathy to something; but to practice this apathy was an altogether different exertion; and more than once did Mary find herself wandering the grounds alone, in wistful contemplation, of what should await her at Longbourn, and what should be forsaken, here, at Pemberley.
To Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, she wrote of her imminent return in detached agreeableness; 'how lovely her stay had been, how kind and welcoming her sister and brother; how pleasant the expectation of returning to the familiarity of Longbourn, her favorite books, her quiet, undisturbed studies.' To Georgiana, when the subject was brought up, she spoke officiously, brushing over it brusquely in favor of returning to other more agreeable topics of discussion. And all the while she slipped away to go on her solitary walks, to the chapel, to the gardens, past the greenhouse which remained, as ever, stubbornly empty. She had thought, once, that she had spotted movement behind the glass; and the joyous way in which her heart had leapt, the weighty pall of sullenness which had all at once swept off of her, had revealed to her much of her own sensibilities; but the movement had been a trick of the light; she could see, as she peered in, that the easels and supplies were all untouched, left just as they had been several weeks hence; and the powerful blow of disappointment that was delivered upon her in this realization was something akin to grief, so acutely painful and intense was it – and all the more painful in the removal of this momentary hope.
It was no longer her lot, then, with this unintentional revelation being thus stumbled upon, to continue effecting apathy with any sort of conviction; but in its stead, she turned her efforts upon berating herself, and holding herself and her sensibilities in disfavour. For Mary was never one to shy from the unpleasant scalpel of introspection, and where a less brave soul might have been perfectly content with leaving their inner workings unexamined, Mary was always determined to thoroughly scrutinize her emotions, her current sensitive state, and from whence these were all born; and thus, to get at the very seeds of the matter.
So she asked of herself, quite pointedly, why indeed it should matter so much to her whether Mr. Crawford should return, and whether or not she should ever meet with him again; and on this she thought at great length; until at last she was forced to admit to herself, reluctantly, that she had grown fond of his company; and even dependent upon it in part for her happiness; and had come to desire his approval, and his esteem, and take pleasure in their conversations.
And how was such an attachment formed, by her, she who so carefully guarded herself against any inadvisable imprudence? It was, she decided, the fault of a cruel coincidence; that a gentleman would thus appear in her acquaintance, who should so well agree with that which she had long desired and imagined of an intellectual companion - one who should listen to her with interest which was genuine, who should not spurn her thoughts, but respect them; admire them, even – and who should have novel thoughts of his own, which challenged hers, and from which sprang forth new and wholly unexpected paths of discourse. This, which had always been so wanting in her life, and so secretly desired, once granted, was bound to enthrall and enrapture her; she had, indeed, no defenses prepared against such an outcome. This, then, was a failing of her inexperience and unworldliness, for if only she had a larger pool of acquaintances from which to draw, a larger party of company to whom she had been exposed, she would have not found Mr. Crawford's attentions to be so novel, or indeed so precious to her.
This train of thought, too, had the effect of making clearer to her the intentions of the gentleman: to him, she was no such great novelty as he was to her; he lived the free, undisturbed life of a modern academic; he dined and kept company with the smartest sets in London. How many clever and eloquent women he must speak to there, she could not begin to guess at; but she doubted such ladies to be the rarity in town that they were in her quiet Hertfordshire. Perhaps, she might flatter herself in saying he, too, had enjoyed the conversations the two of them had shared; but that was the most she could say – and now his sudden departure, his impersonal farewell, was rendered scrutable; an oak is bound to make a greater impression upon a sapling than a sapling upon the oak. It seemed she had fallen prey to a trap of her own construction.
For this carelessness, she chided herself, and lectured herself sternly on the perceived misguidance which had led her to this end; and thus, the memories of all of their conversations, even their most recent one in the gardens, at one time cherished by her so dearly, were soured, and grew spoilt; and in recollection of them, the hurt became more pronounced, the gratification more distant, and on the whole it became unpleasant to dwell upon them; and now, each time that she passed the greenhouse (for she would not avoid it, would not allow herself to thus bear witness to her weakness), she no longer examined its glass for any signs of movement, but walked past it, her head held proudly and firmly, and only a slight pursing of her lips, and a tightness of her hands, was any indication she was conscious of passing it at all.
Thus, it was in this way that the day of the dance finally dawned, and Mary awoke to it with the nervous anticipation of it settled as a leaden weight in her stomach.
Most of the morning and afternoon was spent in Georgiana's company, but she could not summon the enthusiasm to enjoy her final day at Pemberley; and she must have looked a very ill sight, for even Georgiana could not help but remark to her friend that was looking a little wan today, and did she feel herself to be quite well?
Mary knew Lizzy to be occupied with all of the final accoutrements of the evening, and did not expect to see a great deal of her until the festivities had already begun; it was a surprise to her, then, to see Lizzy come up to her room, some hour or so before guests were due to begin arriving, and to sit upon her bed and keep her company, as Mary's hair was being done.
"I have done it, Mary," Lizzy declared gaily, with her cheeks aglow. She was marked with a tiredness, but it was the sort of tiredness which was hale and gratifying, and which often suited a lady's looks, by enhancing their vividness, rather than depleting it.
"Do not let them say I have not known the labours of Michelangelo, or Donatello," Lizzy declared, laughing, "for I can honorably say that the magnificent orchestration of this affair was a testament to such exertions as they have not rightly suffered themselves, even for their arts; and that if a woman had been set with the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, it should have been finished a week earlier, and with some a hundred more figures painted on it, for the sake of harmony and balance. Oh, what a great relief, Mary! I can happily live the rest of my life, I think, if I am not even once more asked which shade of linen I prefer."
"Indeed, Lizzy," Mary said drily, "I would simply make a habit of making the most contrary selections; until they should see it was no use to come to me, and I should no longer be bothered with it."
"And that is all well and good, Mary, dear, if one is an austere recluse, as you plan to become in your old age; but as silly as I may find it, I have since learned that some people take very seriously indeed the display of the correct color of linens, and I should gravely offend their sensibilities if I was to neglect their proper selection."
"It is fortunate, then, that such a lot does not fall upon my shoulders."
Her sister did not immediately reply, and Mary grew conscious then of her sister examining her keenly, and was almost certain that she was about to remark on her paleness, or her drawn face; but instead, Elizabeth came to stand next to her, and gently brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, in the most tender gesture Mary had ever received from any of her sisters before.
Unwittingly, Mary turned to face Lizzy, and saw in her eyes a fondness which made her feel suddenly a little girl again, trembling in her bed because she was frightened of a terrible storm. Perhaps, she had not needed to brave it alone; perhaps, after all, she should have simply woken one of her sisters.
There was something she ought to say, she thought, in this moment, but felt herself to be wholly inadequate to express in words the swell of emotion which had suddenly burst upon her. She feared for a moment that Lizzy gazed down upon her and saw all – saw clearly all the tumult which roiled within her head, the import attached to a certain gentleman, and the cruel effects that his absence had wrought; but then she saw, in the corner of her sister's eye, a small tear which had formed, and a small, tremulous smile which spoke of immeasurable happiness, and suddenly, Mary knew precisely why her sister had come up to visit her tonight.
"Oh, Lizzy," was all she could think to say.
Lizzy laughed. "How delightfully eloquent, my dear," she chided, but did not seem too put about, collapsing back down on the bed and smiling grandly. "Yes, indeed your fears are confirmed, Mary, for I am in the family way."
"What news!" Mary said dumbly, for Lizzy was the first of her sisters to embark on such an undertaking, and she could not in this moment recall the proper thing one was meant to say in response to such a pronouncement.
But Lizzy was in too high spirits; or perhaps she knew her sister too well; and only laughed brightly. "You are the first of our family I have told, Mary; I have not even written Mama or Papa yet. I only sent out a letter with the news to Jane yesterday. You are entrusted to carry the news back to Longbourn with you, if you do not find such a task too exacting, and to endeavor to catch Mama if she swoons."
The shock had passed somewhat in the intervening seconds; Mary felt she was at last regaining her senses; she felt, also, a great relief, entangled with the faintest disappointment, that her own secret was still safe, and that to speak of Mr. Crawford was not at all the reason Lizzy had come up to see her. Unthinkingly, she reached out and took her sister's hand. "I earnestly congratulate you, Lizzy. I wish you the greatest contentment, and I am so very glad for you, that you have found for yourself such happiness and satisfaction." She spoke feelingly, as she had never spoken to her sister before, even at her wedding. For once she did not allow herself to labor over her words, or to search out something fitting she might pull from one of her extracts; her speech was not at all clever, nor very original, but all the same, it was hers, and her sister's returning smile reassured her that she had said the proper and correct thing.
"I shall miss you, Mary, dear. You must promise to write, and we shall soon have you back at Pemberley, so that you may meet your niece or nephew." Lizzy's gaze had grown fond once more. "I truly think it is not too complacent to say that your visit here at Pemberley has done you a world of good, my dear Mary; and certainly, to your credit, for Georgiana, as well. You have grown into quite a clever young woman, somewhere among your extracts and reading."
Mary was gladdened by the praise; but it was the sort of gladness which was the enjoyment of the final fading dregs of a pleasant thing; still, there was some comfort to be had in the prospect of an eventual return to Pemberley – an attractive recompense towards which the listless, monotonous days at Longbourn might tend.
"I thank you, Lizzy, for your hospitality and kindness; I have enjoyed my stay at Pemberley most earnestly, and shall be sorry to part ways; but you may be sure of my regular correspondence, and that I shall keep you abreast of all that happens at home and in Meryton." And though Mary was not departing with the same spirit and animation which she had worn but a few weeks ago, she at least felt herself in greater and improved spirit than when she had first arrived; and it was her inclination to agree with her sister, in that her stay at Pemberley had given her much, and that it was always preferable for one to dwell more on that which is bestowed, rather than on that which is withheld.
"Well, I shall not disturb you any longer, dear, that you may finish all your provisions and preparation for the dance; and I must finish mine, too, and join the ranks downstairs."
But as they bid their farewells, Elizabeth paused at the door, and seemed a moment to consider her words, before she said, "One final thought I impart on you, if I may; and you may glean from it what you will, for I have no philosopher from whom to draw a suitable quote; but at times, our fears persuade us to shutter our hearts against the risk of injury; and it may seem at first a greater comfort to do so, particularly if an injury has been inflicted; but in truth, to live perpetually with a shuttered heart – that is the true injury against the soul; and as your sister, I hope you do not now condemn yourself to it."
And with this sage, succinct advice, Elizabeth departed, leaving Mary to feel much as if her own soul had been bared, and peered into, and a linctus prescribed for its ailment. She had been found out, after all; her sister, in her usual astuteness, had identified the precise cause of her paleness, her weariness, her dismal spirits; and, though in so few words, had said precisely what had needed to be said.
She turned over her sister's advice for some minutes, examining its surface for flaws and blemishes, and in doing so, she let, unintentionally, a small sliver of hope to creep into her heart; perhaps, perhaps she should now descend downstairs, and there he should be, with his customary wry smile, and his teasing gaze, and his gracious bow; and he should say, "Good evening, Miss Bennet. I trust you are well, and that you have been engaged with learning a great deal many clever and impressive things in my absence. I only ask that you excuse my sudden withdrawal from Pemberley, for there I fear there was naught which could have been done to prevent it; but now that I am returned, I give you leave to apprise me directly of all that I have missed." And he should give her his wry smile, and gaze upon her fondly, and all would be restored to as it once was.
But just as if a sudden chill wind had blown through the room, the vision dissolved into nothingness, and just as one snuffs the flame of a candle, she doused this hope as quickly as it had appeared; and shook her sister's words from her head, without any firm conclusion yet drawn on them.
With her dress at last complete, she paused to survey her room, of which she had grown rather fond, and to brush her hand across the several books of botany, laid on her dresser, which she had secreted away to her room some months ago; and, resolving to return them to the Pemberley library on the way to the ball, she tucked them beneath her arm as she made her way downstairs.
A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who is reading, and to all the lovely reviews :D I really am so excited to be back with this story, and so appreciative of everyone coming back to it after my hiatus.
Next week: the dance!