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Mary Bennet was quite interested to meet the cousin who was to disinherit her and her sisters. She had detected sense in the letter he had sent to her father, in which he explained that filial piety had prevented him from healing the breach, but now that his father was dead, he wished to meet his cousins.
Mary knew that her mother intended to throw Lizzy at the head of the cousin who was to inherit Longbourn, Jane being all but settled. But within minutes of St. John Rivers’ arrival at Longbourn, Mary could see that these plans were useless. He greeted them all with grave courtesy, but with a cool demeanour that suggested that he was unaware that Mary’s sisters were pretty girls.
The disinterest was mutual. St. John Rivers was a handsome man, almost like a Greek statue. However, Mary’s sisters had little interest in him. Kitty and Lydia only cared for officers in scarlet coats, Jane was already infatuated with a handsome rich man who had asked her to dance, and Lizzy was simply not interested in a man whose sole concerns were those of religion and work.
Mary, on the other hand, derived considerable benefit from St. John’s readings and sermons. He was a man of sense, in her opinion.
During their first dinner together, which Mrs. Bennet had taken great pains to assure was at least three courses, the subject was indirectly broached. “Things are settled so oddly,” Mrs. Bennet said.
“You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate.”
“Ah! sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls, you must confess. Not that I mean to find fault with you, for such things I know are all chance in this world. There is no knowing how estates will go when once they come to be entailed.”
He shrugged. “When Mr. Bennet is called to his Creator, you and your daughters are welcome to remain here. I shall not be living here.”
“Whatever can you mean?” Mrs. Bennet asked, all alertness.
“A year ago I was intensely miserable, because I thought I had made a mistake in entering the ministry: its uniform duties wearied me to death. I burnt for the more active life of the world—for the more exciting toils of a literary career—for the destiny of an artist, author, orator; anything rather than that of a priest: yes, the heart of a politician, of a soldier, of a votary of glory, a lover of renown, a luster after power, beat under my curate’s surplice. I considered; my life was so wretched, it must be changed, or I must die. After a season of darkness and struggling, light broke and relief fell: my cramped existence all at once spread out to a plain without bounds—my powers heard a call from heaven to rise, gather their full strength, spread their wings, and mount beyond ken. God had an errand for me; to bear which afar, to deliver it well, skill and strength, courage and eloquence, the best qualifications of soldier, statesman, and orator, were all needed: for these all centre in the good missionary.
“A missionary I resolved to be. From that moment my state of mind changed; the fetters dissolved and dropped from every faculty, leaving nothing of bondage but its galling soreness—which time only can heal. My father, indeed, imposed the determination, but since his death, I have not a legitimate obstacle to contend with; some affairs settled, a successor for Morton provided, an entanglement or two of the feelings broken through or cut asunder—a last conflict with human weakness, in which I know I shall overcome, because I have vowed that I will overcome—and I leave Europe for the East.”
“But what of Longbourn?” Mrs. Bennet asked.
“What care I for an estate on earth? I am laying a foundation on earth for a mansion in heaven. I hope to be numbered in the band who have merged all ambitions in the glorious one of bettering their race—of carrying knowledge into the realms of ignorance—of substituting peace for war—freedom for bondage—religion for superstition—the hope of heaven for the fear of hell. It is dearer than the blood in my veins. It is what I have to look forward to, and to live for.”
Mary could not speak, but his words had stirred her.
The day after St. John’s arrival, Mary followed her usual routine. She diligently practiced the pianoforte for two hours, then read Fordyce’s sermons for a time. She was conscious of her cousin’s occasional scrutiny; he was sitting in the same parlour, reading a book borrowed from her father’s library, but now and then would lift his gaze to study her.
When she had read her allotted amount for the morning, she took up her pen and began to write, keeping her letters small and neat.
After a time, her cousin’s voice broke in. “Pardon my interruption, cousin Mary, but may I ask what you are writing?”
Mary looked up. “I write extracts of all of the books I read.”
His alabaster brow knit briefly as if in deep thought. “May I read some of them?”
Mary was surprised. Her father had used to read some of her extracts when she was younger, but had not done so in years. Her elder sisters sometimes read them, but she knew it was only out of kindness to her, so she did not press them often.
“But of course. I shall fetch them.”
She spent several minutes in her room selecting what she hoped were her best extracts. He accepted them with courteous thanks and began to read them quite seriously. She resumed work on her current extract.
When she eventually put down her pen, before she could fetch her needlework, St. John began, to her surprise, to discuss her extracts. He first praised them for their thoroughness, then in gentle terms disputed some of her conclusions. This initiated an intense discussion of doctrine that only ended when they were called to dinner.
After that, every day after her reading was done he would read her newest extract and they would discuss it. She found herself striving to improve her extracts for his approbation. Having a conversational partner was highly agreeable.
“Pride,” Mary observed one day, “is a very common failing, I believe. By all that I have ever read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed; that human nature is particularly prone to it, and that there are very few of us who do not cherish a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some quality or other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.”
He nodded seriously. “I am simply, in my original state—stripped of that blood-bleached robe with which Christianity covers human deformity—a cold, hard, ambitious man. Natural affection only, of all the sentiments, has permanent power over me. Reason, and not feeling, is my guide; my ambition is unlimited: my desire to rise higher, to do more than others, insatiable. I honour endurance, perseverance, industry, talent; because these are the means by which men achieve great ends and mount to lofty eminence. I watch you with interest, because I consider you a specimen of a diligent, orderly, energetic woman.”
“You would describe yourself as a mere pagan philosopher,” Mary said.
“No. There is this difference between me and deistic philosophers: I believe; and I believe the Gospel. You missed your epithet. I am not a pagan, but a Christian philosopher—a follower of the sect of Jesus. As His disciple I adopt His pure, His merciful, His benignant doctrines. I advocate them: I am sworn to spread them. Won in youth to religion, she has cultivated my original qualities thus:—From the minute germ, natural affection, she has developed the overshadowing tree, philanthropy. From the wild stringy root of human uprightness, she has reared a due sense of the Divine justice. Of the ambition to win power and renown for my wretched self, she has formed the ambition to spread my Master’s kingdom; to achieve victories for the standard of the cross. So much has religion done for me; turning the original materials to the best account; pruning and training nature. But she could not eradicate nature: nor will it be eradicated ‘till this mortal shall put on immortality.’”
Originally St. John had planned to spend only a week with the Bennets, but he earnestly applied for more time. “I find you and your daughters to be very agreeable companions,” he informed Mr. Bennet seriously. Mr. Bennet had been enjoying their discussions of books and readily assented. Mrs. Bennet did not look entirely happy to hear the news, as her hopes concerning St. John and Lizzy were only too clearly in vain, but politeness required that she not be overt in her irritation.
Mary studied French from a few children’s textbooks as it was a popular accomplishment among her class. She doubted that she could speak easily in France, but she could converse with her fellow Englishmen who had learnt a bit. One day after observing her studies, St. John spoke to her.
“I want you to give up French and learn Hindustani.”
“You are not in earnest?”
“In such earnest that I must have it so: and I will tell you why.”
He then went on to explain that Hindustani was the language he was himself at present studying; that, as he advanced, he was apt to forget the commencement; that it would assist him greatly to have a pupil with whom he might again and again go over the elements, and so fix them thoroughly in his mind; that he had fixed on Mary because he saw she could sit at a task the longest. Would she do him this favour? She should not, perhaps, have to make the sacrifice long, as it wanted now barely three months to his departure.
St. John was not a man to be lightly refused: one felt that every impression made on him, either for pain or pleasure, was deep-graved and permanent. Mary consented. When her sisters learnt of it, they all laughed, and all agreed that St. John should never have persuaded them to such a step. He answered quietly—
“I know it.”
She found him a very patient, very forbearing, and yet an exacting master: he expected her to do a great deal; and when she fulfilled his expectations, he, in his own way, fully testified his approbation.
Mary had always resented that better masters had not been hired to educate her and her sisters. Now at last someone actually wished to teach her, and she accordingly applied herself.
One day as they finished their Hindustani practice, St. John declared himself.
“Cousin Mary, I go in six weeks; I have taken my berth in an East Indiaman which sails on the 20th of June.”
“God will protect you; for you have undertaken His work,” she answered.
“Yes,” said he, “there is my glory and joy. I am the servant of an infallible Master. I am not going out under human guidance, subject to the defective laws and erring control of my feeble fellow-worms: my king, my lawgiver, my captain, is the All-perfect. It seems strange to me that all round me do not burn to enlist under the same banner,—to join in the same enterprise.”
“All have not your powers, and it would be folly for the feeble to wish to march with the strong.”
“I do not speak to the feeble, or think of them: I address only such as are worthy of the work, and competent to accomplish it.”
“Those are few in number, and difficult to discover.”
“You say truly; but when found, it is right to stir them up—to urge and exhort them to the effort—to show them what their gifts are, and why they were given—to speak Heaven’s message in their ear,—to offer them, direct from God, a place in the ranks of His chosen.”
“If they are really qualified for the task, will not their own hearts be the first to inform them of it?”
“And what does your heart say?” demanded St. John.
“My heart is mute,—my heart is mute,” Mary answered, taken aback.
“Then I must speak for it,” continued the deep, relentless voice. “Mary, come with me to India: come as my helpmeet and fellow-labourer.”
She could only stare.
“God and nature intended you for a missionary’s wife. It is not personal, but mental endowments they have given you: you are formed for labour, not for love. A missionary’s wife you must—shall be. You shall be mine: I claim you—not for my pleasure, but for my Sovereign’s service.”
“I am not fit for it: I have no vocation,” Mary said, abashed.
“Humility, Mary,” said he, “is the groundwork of Christian virtues: you say right that you are not fit for the work. Who is fit for it? Or who, that ever was truly called, believed himself worthy of the summons? I, for instance, am but dust and ashes. With St. Paul, I acknowledge myself the chiefest of sinners; but I do not suffer this sense of my personal vileness to daunt me. I know my Leader: that He is just as well as mighty; and while He has chosen a feeble instrument to perform a great task, He will, from the boundless stores of His providence, supply the inadequacy of the means to the end. Think like me, Mary—trust like me. It is the Rock of Ages I ask you to lean on: do not doubt but it will bear the weight of your human weakness.”
“I do not understand a missionary life: I have never studied missionary labours.”
“There I, humble as I am, can give you the aid you want: I can set you your task from hour to hour; stand by you always; help you from moment to moment. This I could do in the beginning: soon (for I know your powers) you would be as strong and apt as myself, and would not require my help.”
“But my powers—where are they for this undertaking?”
“I have an answer for you—hear it. I have watched you ever since we first met: I have made you my study for weeks. I have proved you in that time by sundry tests: and what have I seen and elicited? I found you could perform well, punctually, uprightly, labour uncongenial to your habits and inclinations; I saw you could perform it with capacity and tact: you could win while you controlled. In the tractability with which, at my wish, you forsook a study in which you were interested, and adopted another because it interested me; in the untiring assiduity with which you have since persevered in it—in the unflagging energy and unshaken temper with which you have met its difficulties—I acknowledge the complement of the qualities I seek. Are you to play the pianoforte, paint tables, cover screens, and net purses for all of your life? Your diligence should have a useful outlet. Mary, you are docile, diligent, disinterested, faithful, constant, and courageous; very gentle, and very heroic: cease to mistrust yourself—I can trust you unreservedly. As a conductress of Indian schools, and a helper amongst Indian women, your assistance will be to me invaluable.”
For a long minute they were both silent, regarding each other. Mary’s mind was rearranging all of its assumptions. St. John was right; she wished to work, but the work allowed to young ladies was trivial, only fit for ornament. The most she could hope for was one day to run a household, and that, only if she could find a man willing to settle for a plain, bookish woman.
Here, she was being offered a chance to work, and work hard, and be useful in the world. There would be no more netting of purses, but real work that mattered. And a husband who, while he was not in love with her, nonetheless appreciated such merits as she had.
“I accept with all my heart, St. John.”
After St. John had secured Mr. Bennet’s consent to the match and their engagement was announced, Mrs. Bennet was over the moon. For the first time, Mary was, temporarily, her mother’s favorite. The plainest of all the Bennet girls, and yet the first married. And her marriage to the heir of Longbourn doubly secured the family’s security in their home. Mary was paraded to every family in the county with announcements of her imminent marriage. So far as Mrs. Bennet was concerned, the only fly in the ointment was that Mary would go so far away. She had never spent much time with Mary or seemed to enjoy her company, but now that she was to be married and go to a faraway country, suddenly Mrs. Bennet found that she would miss her middle daughter, as she told all of her neighbours at great length.