The rest of the day passed in agreeable distraction; Mary found she quite liked Lucy Radcliff, her keen eye and her efficient manner, and that it was not insignificantly preferable to the Miss Lucases' natural mirth, which was, if not particularly irksome, at least wholly foreign to Mary's own disposition.
Miss Radcliff bid them all farewell late that afternoon, and they saw her off on the evening coach. The rest of the visit might well have passed relatively unremarkably, in fact, if only the group had not determined to explore some more of the town that next morning, as precursor to the day's seafront excursion; if it were so, they very well might have never passed the particular back thoroughfare of rather unkempt houses, from one of which exited a young lady in rather shabby dress, and ineptly mended gloves, but a disproportionately haughty expression on her pretty face notwithstanding; and who halted with a great exclamation of surprise upon seeing the group.
"Mary, good heavens!" Lydia cried, in a tone of sheer amazement, which at the same time did not suggest an immediate delight at the prospect of such an unplanned sisterly reunion. For an unguarded moment, there was displayed before Mary quite a different Lydia than the one she remembered – a thinner face, wearing an expression much warier than her years merited; a general furtiveness in her posture, which had surely never been present before, in even the faintest shadow, in their young, reckless Lydia; but then another moment passed, and her sister seemed to gather herself, and recover somewhat her composure; and then all at once a far more familiar air was assumed, and it was as if the first one had never existed at all.
"Mary, my dear!" she resumed in her usual affected tone, with a charming and indulgent smile, and came to embrace her sister as affectionately as if they had always been the dearest and closest of friends. "You have given me the most delightful surprise! To think of running into you here – in Southend, indeed - of all places! My dear Wickham shall never believe it, when I recount it to him tonight! No, he shall teaze me, and say I have made it all up - he shall not believe it in the slightest! Of all the people I might have run into – Kitty, perhaps, I might have expected – any of our other sisters - indeed, how wholly improbable that it is you, particularly!"
Mary was certainly not any less surprised – last she had heard from letters to Longbourn, Lydia and Wickham were settled comfortably somewhere in Gateshead, and with an intention of remaining there some time, Wickham's prospects at his current station, as Lydia wrote, being quite good, and the situation comfortable – it was the faint feeling of stupor one was afflicted with when one, being certain they were headed away from some landmark, suddenly emerged upon it instead – to see Lydia here, in residence at some house, which did not in and of itself seem particularly agreeable – but there was nought for Mary to do, upon her wits being somewhat recovered, but to introduce Lydia to the rest of her party, and once all appropriate exchanges of greetings were completed, to extend an invitation to join them.
Lydia, who seemed impressed, out of the company, only by Mr. Radcliff's presence, and took especial pains to smile at him quite charmingly, while quite ignoring the Miss Lucases, seemed to consider Mary's proposition quite seriously; but, after a moment's hesitation, could not allow the idea. Several errands must be run today; there was simply no circumventing their necessity.
"But indeed," said Mr. Radcliff jovially, "such a serendipitous reunion cannot be rendered so brief! Perhaps, upon completing your errands, you shall join your sister for a cold luncheon at our inn?"
The direct appeal from Mr. Radcliff seemed to tip the scales in favor of acquiescence – but what a wonderful idea! Of course, a cold luncheon should be just the thing, once her morning schedule was completed. They parted ways with the inn's address and firm promises to one another that they should meet at one o' clock, or thereabouts – certainly not more than half past one, Lydia added, as her final farewell, and Mary left her with a growing assurance that this brief exchange might well have been the last she saw of Lydia in Southend –
But Mary's suspicions proved themselves to be undeserved, for at a quarter to two Lydia entered the inn, quickly scanning about the room until she spotted her sister, and the table laid out for them.
"La, Mary, what a frantic morning this was – to think, the prices they wrench for such a little thing as mending one or two dresses, and less than half-dozen shirtcoats - I believe I spent a good hour arguing over it, thinking they should at last acquire some shame in themselves – but no! 'Well,' said I, 'Be it as you wish – I shall mend it myself, and you shall not get any penny from me –' What advantage is it to them - tell me, Mary – to lose a respectable customer as myself, when they might have made themselves some spare shillings, if only they had been willing to proffer their services at a reasonable price. Well, I shall mend them myself, mark my words, Mary, dear; and shall come back and show them. It is not as if it is so very difficult as soon as one learns it."
Mary, who remembered Lydia's rather abysmal skills with a needle, and her inability to keep at any solitary task for more than a few minutes, did not make any remark to this; but Lydia, having relieved herself of her frustrations, did not seem to expect any. She settled comfortably in her chair, and helped herself to a thick slice of bread, and applied a generous smothering of butter, and spoons of jam upon that. Having taken a bite, she seemed at last to become aware of her surroundings.
"La, where is the rest of your party, Mary?" she exclaimed at last, looking about expectantly.
"They are still at the beach, I believe," Mary said. "They are coming back for tea later in the afternoon." It occurred to her now that Lydia had perhaps only agreed to the luncheon under the impression that Mr. Radcliff should be in attendance as well – and Lydia's subsequent look of disappointment did not serve to dissuade her of this idea.
"Ah, no matter," she said in a rather disheartened tone, and, seemingly to comfort herself, she cut another slice of bread, which she topped with a healthy assortment of the cold meats and cheeses spread before them. Mary, who was not particularly hungry, sipped her tea contemplatively. She could only imagine Lydia's thinness, her poor state of dress a product of her husband's ill management of funds; she was no longer the bright-cheeked, careless girl she once was; but then, she was not entirely void of her either. There was a stubborn flush to Lydia's cheeks, a proud tilt to her head, that showed to Mary that, hard as it was to believe, she was not entirely displeased with her circumstances – not pleased, perhaps, but not entirely displeased; and that there must have been yet some satisfaction she derived from her married state, and perhaps even the brazen entry she took into it. It was a strange exercise, to imagine where Lydia might have been, had Wickham never entered her life. Perhaps she would be living at Longbourn still, with Mary – perhaps, just as Kitty had been, she would have been brought under her elder sisters' calming influence; perhaps it was her that Mrs. Bennet should have been introducing to Mr. Radcliff over dinner.
Or perhaps she should have found another soldier in Bath with whom to run off, and it should all have ended the same; and then, perhaps, Wickham regardless, Lydia should grow into herself yet – she was still at such a young, tender age, after all, and Mary certainly had not yet grown into herself at that age either – and perhaps had not even done so now.
Once Lydia had satisfied herself some minutes with the food and tea, she began her torrential speech again. "Indeed, Mary, what a strange affair this is, having nuncheon with you in Southend; and to think, I awoke today not having the slightest inkling you might even be here."
"Are you staying in town long?" Mary asked carefully, but Lydia's eyes furrowed, as a young child who has been caught out in a silly fib.
"Ah. You mean to say that I am not at Gateshead. Yes, I fear I write the odd falsehood to Mama; but it is only to soothe her, for she does worry so, and wishes me to write so often, which is such a terrible drain on my time – I so hate penning letters, such useless things – but Wickham and I, we are of the same soul – we are terribly restless, wanderers at heart, I fear. To stay in one place should be terribly dull – do you not think? - so indeed we do move about quite often, wherever he has friends who know of some odd work or other which may suit him – he really does have so many friends, almost all interesting and exciting – we are staying with one of them at the moment, in fact – they met when he – oh, this is a fine marmalade indeed! Such a tart sweetness! – You must try some, try – you see, once one is married and becomes a woman of the house, one must pay attention to these matters – which things to stock, which are better than another for the price – or I shall, anyhow, once we settle down somewhere – Wickham of course is hopeless in such things – always defers to my judgement, as he should, of course. Ah, I fear I have lost my train of thought completely – of what was I speaking?"
There was a time indeed when Mary's sensibilities should have been horribly offended by such chatter; and indeed, many times had been; but now, with some surprise, she found only that she was rather amused, and a mite impressed, at Lydia's ability to recount almost all things to her favor; and for the first time, Mary saw in herself a trace of Lizzy, who must have weathered many such speeches in her time with an expression of amused wryness.
"You were speaking of how Wickham and his friend had come to know each other," Mary offered.
"Oh, yes!" Lydia brightened; it seemed that the conversation had turned upon a welcome subject of hers. "Yes, they met when we were in Town – yes, we stayed in London a short spell, Wickham and I, not six months ago, and they met at one of the social halls – it was such a wonderful, gay time we spent in Town; so many parties I could hardly know what to do with myself –" Lydia's cheeks glowed with a happy flush at the remembrance, "- and... oh, yes, they met playing cards at one of the halls; Wickham was at a special invite of one of the members there, and – Oh, yes! Should you like to know a funny story! It was all anyone could talk about at the time – we never did see him ourselves, of course, but an acquaintance of ours said she saw his poor wife in the shops one day, looking a dreadful state – but then, she would be, of course, wouldn't she?" Lydia looked expectantly at Mary as she took the moment to help herself to more biscuits, and then seemed at once to realize she had not yet explained who he was, nor why his wife should be in a dreadful state.
"It was a baronet, you see," she continued excitedly, "who almost lost his entire estate in cards – forfeited, not a penny to his name; all he had left to put up was his commission. Such a scandal, can you imagine? – and in the end it was his brother – his younger brother, mind you, untitled – who had to come up to town from the country and cover his debts – such shame I should never have been able to bear, to be that baronet's wife – and to think – they still had the nerve to appear in parties after that – penniless, completely in ruin– I should have been so wholly distraught I could not even so much as rise out of bed, but apparently there they were, parading about in their – "
"The name of the baronet – do you remember it?" interrupted Mary.
Lydia stopped short, with a look of great surprise, which was likely on account of the fact that Mary was not only bearing her gossip, but was taking a vested interest in it. And yet Mary was too aquiver to care of the strange impression she might be making on her sister, or to make any effort to smooth her tone. A baronet, and a younger brother called to London – a coincidence, perhaps, and yet her heart knew already.
"Oh, well, it was –," Lydia started, somewhat flustered, "yes, it - it was Crawford – Sir William. Yes, Crawford, I am but certain of it."
What Mary's expression betrayed in that moment, she could not possibly say – but something must have been betrayed, for Lydia frowned at her rather perplexedly.
"And the brother?" Mary pressed.
Lydia's expression turned to one of mild exasperation. "What of the brother? Yes, well, I do not recall much more in regards to him," she said with a note of petulance, taking a pointed sip of her tea. How characteristic of her sister Mary, that she should miss the point of the anecdote entirely – Lydia had many salacious details she had collected on the baronet and his wife, but scant else to say regarding his brother, who to her had never posed as anything more than an indistinct, fleeting figure in the narrative. But then, as it is often wont to do, inspiration struck at the most opportune moment -
"Oh!" Lydia set down her cup with a clatter. "Yes, there is something regarding the brother, I have just recalled! I was speaking with one of our London acquaintances, the sister of one of Wickham's friends from – well, anyhow," Lydia waved a careless hand, "- she says she overheard a maid of the Crawfords giving talk that they should much like to orchestrate an arrangement for the younger brother – a certain lady they know who is from prosperous circumstances, and who has previously paid him some attentions – personally, I do not see any possible objection to such a connexion on his end, seeing he is a second son – but apparently this whole affair has ended with a great falling-out between the two brothers - that is, I should say, on the younger brother's side, of course – I believe Sir William could have been disposed to maintain the relationship, after all, seeing his financial state. I really cannot imagine how his wife bears such circumstances; if Wickham behaved so poorly – well, of, course, I should never stand for him to behave so –"
But the rest of Lydia's chatter was inconsequential to Mary, lost as so much rustling in the wind. There it was - at long last, she had been given this precious gift; she had learned, by a most unexpected channel, what urgent business Mr. Crawford had been called away to, when she'd long abandoned hope of ever receiving it at all; and to one as rational-minded and thorough of character as was Mary, there could be no greater comfort, no deeper satisfaction, than having information which was previously missing being brought forth to her, the blank parts of the canvas coloured in -
And indeed, who could have rightly predicted Lydia to be the main actor of such an event? Certainly not Mary – but grateful to her, however unconscious the gesture on her sister's part, she must be; for to have Mr. Crawford's name resurrected could not help but send a great thrill through her, and a sudden vision, more vivid than she had been able to summon in some time, of his wry smile, and fond, teasing gaze, appeared at once before her.
His brother, a profligate gambler! And Mr. Crawford, a stark contrast indeed to such negligent behavior. It was of no great surprise, then, Mr. Crawford's unfavorable reaction to the mention of his brother. All else followed very logically from this point; there had been no matter untoward, or shameful; all knowledge of Mr. Crawford's character was confirmed - exceeded, even; and the once inscrutable motive of the proposal, now, perhaps, a little clearer –the idea of another match, pushed upon him by his brother, so disparate to his own preference – she could not fault him for any of his actions, and yet she could not fault herself either, even knowing the truth of it now. But oh, what lightness filled her suddenly – the final tremors of doubt had been purged, and she was quite certain now – not simply of her love for him, but of the rightness of that love – and the necessity to act upon it in some way. She had the greatest urge all at once to write to Georgiana, and ask her to which distant corner of the earth Mr. Crawford's expedition had taken him, and to board some ship bound there – the ludicrousness of the idea, the look upon Mr. Crawford's face should she appear before him without warning, disheveled and frantic, just as he had appeared before her, was so unexpectedly amusing to her, that she found herself laughing suddenly.
Such odd behavior not even one as self-regarding as Lydia could ignore; and she stopped in whatever story she had been recounting, and looked upon Mary with as much astonishment as if she had taken a cup of tea and poured it onto her own head.
"Mary, dear, are you quite well? You do not seem at all yourself," Lydia said pointedly, for she certainly had not intended to say anything particularly humorous, and even if she had, Mary did not seem the sort who should appreciate it. Certainly her sister had been always of an odd temperament, but such behavior was fast approaching madness.
But she found no forthcoming reassurance in her sister's reason, for Mary all but smiled at her, a blush colouring her usually pallid cheeks. "Quite well, indeed," Mary said emphatically. "And Lydia - before we part - I should like to say," – and here, to Lydia's great alarm, she reached across the table to take her sister's hand in her own – "as I should have said long before, that I really do wish you every happiness, and hope you can forgive me the judgmental airs with which I used to conduct myself towards you. I should like to think I have grown much since that time. We are of very different spirits, you and I; that one cannot deny; and yet I wish for you the same as I that which I wish for myself, perhaps the most valuable bequest for which one can ask, which is that you live your life in such a way as to have as few regrets in it as one possibly can."
Lydia coloured from mortification, and Mary saw her expression falter, the wariness she had seen in her earlier returning momentarily. She opened her mouth, and closed it, and opened it again; it seemed she was about to speak, but then, seeming to think better of it, she pulled her hand from Mary's and carefully took a sip of her tea. "Yes, well – thank you," she said with an air of embarrassed diffidence.
Quite certain was Lydia that the previous tone of the conversation could not be recovered after such an avowal, particularly one so mawkish and unsolicited, so she took her last slice of bread in silence, and following that, rose clumsily from her chair. "Farewell, sister, dear," she said, bestowing on Mary a cursory embrace, and turning to leave the inn in due haste; but it was not in her spirit to be weighed down in her thoughts too long, and by the time she had left the inn, and was crossing the street, she had returned to her native nature, and was thinking already of the great and mean satisfaction she should have, in saving some half-pennies in mending, and in embarrassing the seamstress who had had the gall to charge such exorbitant prices in the first place.
In the end, the two sisters parted with a mutual gratitude towards one another – Mary, grateful to Lydia for her unwitting part in providing an unexpected resolution to her doubts; and Lydia, grateful to her sister for confirming all her worst suspicions on the ill and adverse effects of spinsterhood, and newly imbued with a deep relief that she had been clever enough to ensure she should never be subject to such a dismal fate herself.