SEVEN
Longbourn.
Elizabeth
Mr. Collins had been at Longbourn for less than twenty-four hours when he announced, at breakfast, that he should very much like to see the town.
“I have been most agreeably impressed,” he said, setting down his cup with great care, “by what I have seen of the estate and its grounds.
The situation is very well indeed, and the house superior in several respects to what I had been led to expect.
Yet a neighbourhood is more than its private estates.
Lady Catherine has always impressed upon me the importance of understanding one's wider society thoroughly. It speaks well of a gentleman, her ladyship says, to know his parish.”
He paused, apparently awaiting some acknowledgement of the wisdom of this principle.
“Then you must see Meryton,” said Lydia, looking up from her plate with so much enthusiasm one would have assumed she was in want of a morning project. “Kitty and I were going to Aunt Phillips's in any case. You can come with us and see everything on the way.”
Kitty confirmed this with a vigorous nod.
“Ah,” said Mr. Bennet, setting down his fork with slow deliberateness. “Then that settles it. Mr. Collins shall see the town, and I shall await his return with the greatest anticipation. I find I am already looking forward to the report.”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together. The smile on her father's face confirmed it. Mr. Collins had been at his elbow since the family woke that morning, and Mr. Bennet had evidently found a solution to rid himself of him, even if for some hours.
Mr. Collins accepted this with immediate gravity and bowed respectfully. “You are exceedingly kind, cousin. I shall make use of the opportunity to dispatch the letter I prepared yesterday and shall hope to return greatly improved by the experience.”
“I have no doubt of it,” said Mr. Bennet.
Mary set down her fork. “I should like to come as well. I have not been to Aunt Philips’s this fortnight.”
“Very good,” said Mrs. Bennet with satisfaction. “Then you shall all go together after breakfast.”
“I believe I shall remain at home today, Mama,” said Jane gently. “I woke with a slight headache this morning and would rather stay quietly indoors. I have letters to write besides.”
Mrs. Bennet looked at her with immediate concern, though not enough concern to alter any plans. “A headache? Well, you had better stay quiet then. Though I dare say a little fresh air might have done you good.”
Elizabeth set down her cup. “Then I will stay with Jane.”
Mrs. Bennet turned toward her with the pleasant firmness she employed when she had already disposed of all objections in her own mind. “You will do no such thing. Jane is not seriously ill. She merely requires a quiet morning and you hovering over her will not improve it.”
“Jane may still want company.”
“Jane has Hill and the whole house besides. She does not need you sitting in the parlour watching her write letters.” Mrs. Bennet’s expression remained perfectly immovable. “Go with your sisters. The fresh air will do you good.”
Elizabeth looked toward Jane, who smiled faintly in a manner that clearly indicated she had already surrendered the argument and believed Elizabeth ought to do the same.
She had hoped to avoid Mr. Collins’s company nearly as much as her father. Unfortunately, with no further objection she could raise without appearing rude, she was obliged to accept the situation and join the others for the walk.
* * *
Meryton
The party set out at half past ten. Lydia and Kitty walked ahead in noisy companionship.
Mr. Collins followed behind them, dividing his attention between Mary and Elizabeth with such determined civility that Elizabeth immediately suspected herself in danger of sustained conversation.
Mary, however, received his observations with earnest seriousness and soon drew the greater part of his attention.
Elizabeth gradually allowed the others to move several steps ahead before continuing after them, an arrangement she found entirely satisfactory. She had long ago discovered that the surest defence against unwanted conversation was the appearance of being perfectly content without it.
She was therefore very glad to observe, within the first quarter mile, that Mr. Collins had become entirely occupied by Mary.
They had begun with the countryside and progressed, by the time the first rooftops appeared, to a volume Mary had been reading.
The Whole Duty of Man , which Mr. Collins appeared to know, or at least to have heard of, which was sufficient for Mary.
His opinion of the work occupied the remainder of the walk at a volume that made conversation from Elizabeth entirely unnecessary.
Mary received all of it with attentive respect.
Elizabeth listened to none of it and was very pleased with them both.
Meryton arranged itself around them as it always did: the broad market street with its familiar disorder of carts and shopfronts, the smell of the bakery, the steady sound of the smithy from somewhere around the corner.
Lydia led them into it as a general leads a charge, with complete confidence in the direction and very little interest in anyone who could not keep pace.
Mr. Collins requested a brief stop at the post office in order to dispatch his letter to Lady Catherine, an errand he performed with visible importance while the rest of the party waited outside.
Mary appeared perfectly willing to wait with him.
Elizabeth, by contrast, occupied herself with observing the activity of the market and wishing the matter concluded.
Mr. Collins soon returned, apparently much satisfied by the successful dispatch of his letter, and the party proceeded on through the market street. They had scarcely reached the edge of the square when Lydia stopped abruptly.
“There is Mr. Denny,” she declared.
She lifted her hand at once in greeting, long before anyone else had decided whether they wished to stop.
Across the street, two officers in regimentals had paused beside a cartwright’s shop. At the sound of his name, the shorter of the two looked up immediately and altered course toward them with easy readiness. The gentleman beside him followed at a quieter pace.
Elizabeth recognised Mr. Denny at once. He was a pleasant young officer who had already established himself upon comfortable terms with nearly everybody in Meryton.
Her attention shifted naturally to his companion.
He was taller than Mr. Denny and carried himself with an ease that seemed entirely unconscious.
His features were handsome, though not in any severe or striking way at first glance.
It was rather the expression that distinguished him, an openness in his countenance, a readiness in his manner, which made him immediately agreeable to look upon.
Kitty caught lightly at Elizabeth’s sleeve as they crossed the street.
“Who is the other one?” she whispered.
“I do not know.”
“He is very handsome.”
“Yes,” said Elizabeth, because it was true, and said nothing more.
Lydia had already reached them.
“Mr. Denny,” she cried, “last time we saw, you disappeared before Mrs. Forster’s party had properly ended. We all remarked upon it.”
Mr. Denny laughed and bowed to the group. “Then I must beg forgiveness of the entire neighbourhood.” He turned toward his companion. “Allow me to present my friend, Mr. George Wickham, lately arrived with the regiment.”
The introductions proceeded in proper order. Lydia and Kitty were first acknowledged, then Mary and Elizabeth, before Mr. Collins was at last presented with particular ceremony.
Mr. Wickham bowed well, easily and without display. Elizabeth noticed immediately the difference between that and Mr. Collins’s own elaborate performances of civility. Mr. Wickham’s manner appeared directed entirely toward the person before him rather than any audience beyond.
“Ladies,” he said. “Mr. Collins.”
Mr. Collins bowed with equal solemnity.
“A gentleman connected with the militia,” he declared, “must necessarily command a degree of public respect. Lady Catherine de Bourgh has frequently observed that a well-regulated militia is among the chief safeguards of civil order.”
Wickham’s smile shifted almost imperceptibly at the name.
“Lady Catherine de Bourgh?” he repeated.
“She is my patroness,” said Mr. Collins, drawing himself up slightly. “Perhaps you have had the honour of hearing of her ladyship before?”
“The name does seem to ring a bell,” said Wickham easily.
Lydia, who had no intention of permitting the conversation to remain with Lady Catherine any longer than necessary, turned immediately back to Mr. Denny.
“You were not at the assembly last week,” said Lydia. “I am certain I should have noticed if you had been.”
“We reached Meryton late in the evening and were not equal to attending,” said Mr. Denny.
Kitty announced then that they were on their way to their Aunt Phillips’s house. Mr. Denny brightened immediately.
“Then we are travelling in the same direction,” he said. “If you will permit us, we shall have the pleasure of accompanying you.”
The Longbourn party and their new additions soon fell naturally into step together.
Mr. Denny occupied himself chiefly with Lydia and Kitty, whilst Mr. Collins resumed his conversation with Mary with all the perseverance of a man entirely determined to see a subject properly concluded.
Elizabeth noticed, however, a slight hesitation in his expression when Mr. Wickham fell into step beside her.
Wickham began easily enough, speaking of Meryton with ready approval and declaring himself favourably impressed by what he had thus far seen of the neighbourhood. Elizabeth found him remarkably easy to converse with. His manner possessed ease without carelessness and attention without effort.
After several minutes, the conversation threatened to lapse into silence.
“So you were unfortunate enough to miss the assembly,” said Elizabeth, more from a wish to continue the conversation than from any real curiosity. “Was it entirely misfortune?”
“Mostly,” said Wickham. “Though Denny could not persuade me to regret it very deeply.”
He smiled slightly.
“He seemed convinced we had sacrificed the single best opportunity of becoming acquainted with the whole neighbourhood in a single evening.”
“He was not wrong,” said Elizabeth. “It answered that purpose rather well.”
“And were there many new acquaintances worth making?”
Elizabeth considered the question with the appearance of taking it seriously.
“Yes,” she said. “There were several new arrivals, both from the militia and from society beyond it. Some very agreeable. And, as one generally finds at such gatherings, one or two who were rather difficult to account for.”
Wickham glanced toward her, his expression brightening with interest.
“Then I imagine the neighbourhood formed its opinions quickly.”
“It always does,” said Elizabeth lightly. “Civility is the chief measure in Hertfordshire. A gentleman who smiles readily and dances every set is declared agreeable before the evening is half over. One who does neither is condemned before supper.”
“A swift tribunal.”
“A remarkably consistent one. For example, one of the new arrivals, Mr. Bingley, danced every set, spoke to everyone within reach, and left the assembly with half the neighbourhood prepared to admire him forever. In his case, the judgement was entirely deserved. He is genuinely amiable.”
“And the opposite side of the question?” said Wickham. “You mentioned one or two difficult to account for.”
Elizabeth was quiet a moment. Not carefully quiet, merely deciding how best to answer.
“His friend,” she said at last. “One Mr. Darcy. He attended the assembly and spoke to almost nobody the entire evening. He remained apart from the company in his bath chair and appeared determined not to enjoy himself. The neighbourhood concluded, by the end of the evening, that he was both proud and disagreeable.”
She said it without resentment and without defence.
Mr. Wickham said nothing immediately.
To Elizabeth’s surprise, he walked on in silence for several moments. He was looking ahead, his expression altered only slightly, though something in it had become very still.
“Mr. Darcy,” he said at last, in a voice quieter than before. “Would that be Mr. Darcy of Pemberley?”
“It would,” said Elizabeth. “You know the name?”
Another brief silence followed.
“We grew up in the same household,” said Wickham. “Our families were once closely connected.”
He spoke evenly, without visible bitterness or warmth either, and that absence of these feelings struck Elizabeth more than either would have done. In the space of a single week, she had now encountered a second person whose composure altered at the mere mention of Mr. Darcy’s name.
Curiosity rose immediately. So too did the conviction that any direct inquiry might end the conversation at once. Elizabeth therefore resolved to leave the subject untouched and hope Mr. Wickham might return to it himself.
Before she could decide whether silence or curiosity would prevail, Lydia called from the front of the party to announce that they had reached Mrs. Phillips’s house.
Elizabeth looked up with faint surprise. In attending to Mr. Wickham’s words, she had scarcely noticed the walk passing around them at all.
The conversation ended there, to her considerable dissatisfaction, as Mrs. Phillips appeared at the door in loud delight over their arrival.