18
Apart
from one or two things I was able to piece together later, I never
learned precisely what was said in the Netherfield dining parlour after
George and I had left it. I do know however that there was an exchange
of letters between Papa and Mr Coates the following morning, after which
all intercourse between Netherfield and Longbourn ceased.
But to
return briefly to the concert — for I cannot entirely pass over an
event, the memory of which was to sustain me through the melancholy
years that followed — it was a brilliant success. Perhaps because of all
that had gone before, I felt amazingly calm throughout: a nerveless,
near exalted feeling wherein everything seemed fluid and connected, and
the idea of a wrong note inconceivable. And George seemed to share the
feeling, for immediately after we ceased playing he spoke of the
performance as “near perfect”.
The
applause too was such as I have never known, with people coming up to
congratulate us afterwards. (I fondly recall Mr Knowles coming with his
mother who was unashamedly wiping away tears; and the music master Mr
Bray was similarly affected. I also recollect Mrs Allardyce coming
forward with Mr Purvis, and whilst my head was being turned with
compliments, I still possessed the wit to wonder why she had changed her
gown.)
In all
the excitement I did not notice the absence of Elizabeth, and I was
therefore quite unprepared when Aunt Gardiner came to me and said
hurriedly: “We are to set off for Longbourn at once, Mary. Sir William
and Lady Lucas have kindly offered to take you in their carriage.”
(Taking my arm as she spoke.) “I am very sorry to hurry you away —
George! you must excuse us — but there is no time to be lost.”
I had
myself become agitated then. “Good heavens! Is there something the
matter? Is somebody ill?”
Aunt
continued to urge me forward, but at the same time endeavoured to speak
calmly: “We are all well, everybody is well. There is no need to
distress yourself. It is merely that Elizabeth — ” Here, she checked
herself. “We will speak of it later, if you please. The Lucases must not
be kept waiting.”
All the
way home in the carriage, it was clear that Sir William and Lady Lucas
knew something which they were at pains to keep from me. Aunt Gardiner
had very unceremoniously bundled me into their carriage and shut the
door on me, responding to my entreaties that she accompany me — that she
at least tell me what was the matter: “We will talk of it later, Mary.
There is not time enough now to explain. Do try for a little
self-control, my dear.” (For I was then beginning to cry that I had not
said goodbye to George.) “These things must be discussed in private,
when we are all returned to Longbourn.”
She had
then turned to thank the Lucases before walking quickly — almost running
— ahead down the driveway to be taken up by the waiting carriage of my
own family.
The
Lucases’ carriage — an antiquated travelling coach driven by an equally
antiquated coachman — had proceeded at a snail’s pace with Sir William
telling me at regular intervals how much he had enjoyed the concert and
how superior George’s and my playing had been. And whenever I had
ventured to interpose a question, either he or Lady Lucas had talked
over the top of me, making observations about the weather (“Such a mild
evening for October.”) or the dishes they had eaten (“Capital currant
tart. You might ask their cook for a receipt, my dear — that is if Mrs
Rossi has no objection.”) A glance at me before reverting once more to
the safety of the concert (“My dear Mary, never have I heard such
superior playing — even at the Court of St James’s.”)
I was by
now quite desperate to reach Longbourn, but when at last we arrived and
I was set down — after which they immediately drove off — I could not
bring myself to enter the house. For several minutes I stood outside in
the darkness, fearing an attack of my old breathlessness, and even when
that fear had subsided, I was seized with the most dreadful foreboding.
Indeed, I now believe that the Lord in his wisdom had vouchsafed me a
glimpse of what lay ahead, for as I finally nerved myself to sound the
door knocker, the words of the twenty-seventh psalm came to me straight:
When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me
up.
It
was Gil Pender who let me in. And it was apparent that she too knew
something, for she would not suffer me to enter the drawing room before
first going ahead herself to announce my arrival. I followed her with
fast beating heart — a visitor in my own house — and upon Papa opening
the door, I saw Elizabeth sitting white-faced on the sofa, still wearing
her little beaded cap, and with Aunt sitting on one side of her and Jane
on the other.
My mother
was collapsed in a chair nearby, but on catching sight of me, she was
able to exclaim: “Here she is at last — little Miss Mary Quite Contrary!
Never a thought for what we have had to endure while she is
a-playing her precious music.”
And when
Papa — after having first dismissed Gil —bade her hold her tongue, she
burst out afresh: “Had it not been for her, none of this would have
happened — they would have been mere common acquaintances — but she must
needs go to Netherfield every day and live in his pocket —”
Here,
Elizabeth spoke up, her voice trembling: “I beg you, Mama. It is not
Mary’s fault. I am entirely to blame.”
She was
unable to continue, and it was then that Papa placed a hand on my
shoulder and made me walk with him into the hall. Closing the door to
the drawing room behind us, he motioned me to go ahead a little way
before saying: “Now, Mary.” There followed a pause as if he were
weighing his words, and while waiting for him to continue — for he was
not normally slow of speech —I was once more conscious of my
fast-beating heart.
“George
leaves for London in two days’ time, does he not?” said he finally. And
upon my confirming it, he continued: “Then you will not mind so much
when I tell you that you are no longer to visit at Netherfield.
Whilesoever Mr Coates and Mrs Rossi are living there, we none of us will
visit. The acquaintance is to be entirely given up. You understand me,
child?”
“Yes,
sir.”
He again
placed his hand upon my shoulder. “You are not of an age for me to
explain my reasons, Mary, but Mr Coates has imposed upon us —” He broke
off, gripping my shoulder. “You must accept my judgment in the matter.”
It was
one of the few completely serious exchanges I had ever had with him —
but as he turned away, there was a glimmer of his old sarcasm: “I am
sorry that this had to happen on the night of your great triumph.”
He was on
the point of returning to the drawing room when I burst out: “Papa! If
you please, may I not say good-bye to George? May I not at least
write to him?”
He shook
his head without looking at me and opened the door, and once again I
glimpsed Elizabeth. Only now her face was pressed against Aunt’s
shoulder and she was crying, her little cap all awry and her hair
tumbling down.
[ This novella will be continued in
the next issue. ]
