CHAPTER SIX
TRUE TO HIS LETTER, Mr. Collins arrived at Longbourn promptly at nine on Saturday morning. The family had scarcely finished breakfast when Hill appeared, announcing that his carriage had drawn up before the house.
Mrs. Bennet, in a flutter of triumph and anxiety, sprang from her chair and began issuing commands as though the whole household were preparing for a royal visit.
“Girls, compose yourselves! Lydia, do not stand with your hands clasped so—Kitty, take Mary’s book from the table, it makes the room look untidy. Jane, my dear, do smile. And Lizzy—oh, heavens, Lizzy, must that creature be in here? I will not have Mr. Collins thinking we dine with animals!”
Elizabeth, seated on the sofa with Pippin curled contentedly beside her, glanced down at the spaniel, who lifted her head and wagged once in sleepy defiance.
“You hear that, my dear? Your reputation precedes you.”
Pippin yawned, unrepentant.
At that moment, Mr. Bennet appeared in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back, an amused gleam in his eye. “Let us not distress ourselves, my dear. If our cousin is half as pious as his letter, he will forgive even Pippin’s sins.”
Mrs. Bennet barely heard him. “Hill! The tea! Lydia, stop giggling! Oh, I shall faint before the man crosses the threshold!”
Outside, the carriage wheels ground to a halt on the gravel. A minute later, the door opened and Hill ushered in Mr. Collins.
He was a man of middling height and round form, his coat buttoned so tightly across his chest that his breath seemed perpetually half-stifled.
His features, though not ill-favoured, were arranged into an expression of grave self-satisfaction.
His bow was deep and deliberate—performed with the solemnity of one accustomed to admiring his own humility.
“Mr. Bennet, sir!” he exclaimed, advancing with both hands extended.
“How truly delighted I am to behold you and your most amiable family. Permit me to say that the favour of this reception shall be ever imprinted upon my heart. I consider it a Christian duty, as well as a personal happiness, to seek reconciliation with those whom Providence has joined to me by blood.”
Mr. Bennet inclined his head, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “You are welcome to Longbourn, cousin. We are pleased to receive you.”
Mrs. Bennet fluttered forward with a curtsy of almost equal gravity. “Indeed we are! Such a pleasure, sir. I cannot tell you how very delighted we are to see you at last.”
Mr. Collins bowed again, hand to chest. "The pleasure is entirely my own, Mrs. Bennet.
I cannot express what felicity it affords me to find myself once more in the bosom of my family.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh was most explicit in her counsel before I quitted Rosings.
She observed that a clergyman who neglects the bonds of kinship neglects his very calling.
I hope I may always prove sensible of her ladyship's wisdom, and of the extraordinary condescension you show in receiving me so warmly. "
How fortunate for us all that Lady Catherine thought to mention it."
The clergyman bowed once more, evidently gratified. "Her ladyship is wisdom itself, sir. I am forever in her debt."
Mr. Bennet, suppressing a smile, inclined his head toward his daughters. “You must allow me to present my girls, cousin. They have been most eager to make your acquaintance.”
Mr. Collins brightened and turned to them at once, bowing in careful succession, his compliments becoming more elaborate with every name.
“Miss Bennet—your countenance is all sweetness. Miss Elizabeth—how fine your eyes, how full of intelligence. Miss Mary—your seriousness speaks of virtue. Miss Kitty and Miss Lydia—youth and liveliness in their happiest union!”
Lydia’s giggle escaped despite her efforts; Kitty hid her smile behind her hand. Elizabeth inclined her head politely, her lips twitching.
At that moment, Pippin stirred, her tail brushing the carpet in slow arcs. Mr. Collins glanced down. His fingers flexed briefly at his sides. He took a small step sideways, as though to better address Mrs. Bennet.
“Ah! A dog?” he stammered. “You keep an animal indoors?”
Pippin, wholly unashamed, blinked up at him with bright, expectant eyes.
“She is very gentle,” Elizabeth replied evenly.
Mr. Collins drew back a little, standing with one hand upon the back of a chair as if for protection.
“How very … domestic,” he observed. “Lady Catherine herself keeps several fine hounds for the defence of her estate, yet she holds it most becoming that such animals should remain properly confined to their kennels, lest they offend the refinement of a drawing room.”
“Indeed?” said Elizabeth, before she could check herself. “Then I fear Lady Catherine and Pippin would soon be at odds, for my little friend does not take kindly to confinement.”
Mrs. Bennet cast her a swift, warning glance. Elizabeth fell silent at once, lowering her eyes to Pippin, whose ears flicked in what seemed decided indignation.
Mr. Bennet, perceiving the growing unease, allowed the faintest curve to touch his lips. “You need not alarm yourself, cousin. Pippin is a gentle creature.”
Mr. Collins hesitated. “She does not bite? I hope”
“All dogs do,” said Mr. Bennet gravely.
“I mean—does she bear herself calmly toward strangers?”
“Perfectly,” Mr. Bennet replied. “She reserves her teeth for intruders.”
“Mr. Bennet!” cried Mrs. Bennet, half in horror. “Pray do not make such jests. You will have the poor man terrified!”
The poor man, indeed, looked ready to retreat another step, but Elizabeth, her eyes sparkling, soothed, “You have nothing to fear, sir. She is a perfect judge of character.”
Lydia giggled outright, earning her mother’s glare.
Mr. Collins, forcing a smile, allowed himself to be seated, though he perched upon the chair as though ready to flee at any sudden movement from the spaniel.
Tea was brought, and he took his cup with solemn gratitude.
“How pleasant to be thus welcomed. Lady Catherine would commend such civility, I am sure. She has often remarked that gracious manners, properly directed, are the surest mark of refinement. Indeed, I must tell her that Longbourn’s hospitality does her justice. ”
Mrs. Bennet glowed with pride. “You are too kind, sir. We are simple country folk, but we do our best.”
Mr. Bennet stirred his tea, his tone mild. “Does Lady Catherine also advise her clergy on the proper arrangement of their teacups?”
“Indeed she does,” Mr. Collins said with perfect seriousness. “Her ladyship is of the opinion that every action, however small, may reflect one’s understanding of propriety. She has even done me the honour of inspecting my bookshelves.”
Elizabeth bit back a smile. “How fortunate you are, sir, to be so perfectly guided. It must save you from ever being wrong.”
“Precisely so,” said Mr. Collins, glowing.
Mrs. Bennet clasped her hands, turning toward her husband. “Well, Mr. Bennet, I must say our cousin is a most excellent man. So gracious, so obliging! I am sure we shall all be very happy with him at Longbourn.”
“I have no doubt,” Mr. Bennet replied, lifting his cup. “Especially the dog.”
Elizabeth laughed quietly; Pippin wagged as though in agreement.
Mr. Collins, mistaking the amusement for admiration, bowed once more. “You are very good, sir. I shall hope to prove worthy of your kindness. And, if it would not be considered forward, I should count it an honour to lead your family in prayer this evening.”
Mrs. Bennet clasped her hands in delight. “How proper! Oh, Mr. Collins, you are too good.”
Elizabeth leaned toward Pippin, whispering, “You hear that, my love? Our trials begin at sunset. Let us pray for patience.”
Pippin gave a small whine—one that sounded suspiciously like despair.
***
MRS. BENNET SPARED NO effort in honouring their guest that evening.
The dining table at Longbourn gleamed beneath the candlelight, heavy with dishes more numerous than refined.
Every shining spoon and steaming platter proclaimed her triumph in receiving a Clergyman of good fortune and great expectations—even one so peculiar as Mr. Collins.
Elizabeth, seated midway down the table, could not help noting the air of solemn ceremony that had settled over the company.
Their cousin had already spent the better part of the afternoon discoursing on Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s “noble condescension” and her “talent for improving the morals of the parish,” and he now surveyed his plate as if the arrangement of the vegetables might also bear her influence.
Mr. Bennet, his countenance composed but his eyes betraying mischief, broke the hush.
“My dear cousin,” he said with studied politeness, “I recall your generous offer to lead the family in prayer. It so happens that at Longbourn we observe our devotions rather strictly—just before we take the first bite. Would you oblige us?”
Jane’s fork paused midair. Lydia’s lips parted in a delighted gasp. Even Mary blinked in confusion. They never prayed before meals.
Mr. Collins rose at once, looking gratified. “With pleasure, sir. A household that honours the Almighty before pudding must surely prosper.”
He clasped his hands and began, his tone measured and pompous:
“Heavenly Father, we give Thee thanks for this table so abundantly supplied, for the blessings of kinship, and for the noble examples set before us by our betters—most especially the virtuous Lady Catherine de Bourgh, whose conduct illumines every Christian household…”
Elizabeth lowered her head, not to pray, but to conceal the twitch of her mouth. Across from her, Lydia choked audibly, and Kitty hid behind her napkin.
When the prayer at last concluded, Mrs. Bennet declared, “How proper! I daresay we have never been so pious.”
“Indeed,” murmured Mr. Bennet, his expression unreadable, “and I find myself most edified.”
The soup was served, conversation resumed, and Mr. Collins—secure in his success—began to praise every detail within reach. “Such table linen, Mrs. Bennet! Such attention to order! I vow Lady Catherine herself would commend this household for its decorum.”
Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane, whose smile trembled on the edge of laughter.
It was then that a small, familiar shape appeared at the door. Pippin, evidently confident of her welcome, trotted into the room and seated herself at Elizabeth’s feet, her tail sweeping the carpet in genteel expectation.
Mr. Collins noticed her immediately. His spoon halted midair. “Good heavens. The dog joins the table?”
Mrs. Bennet gasped. “Lizzy! Why must that creature follow you everywhere? Pray, take her out at once before she alarms our guest.”
But before Elizabeth could move, Mr. Bennet intervened, perfectly calm. “Nonsense, my dear. Pippin is an honourable member of the household. She has the best table manners of us all.”
The girls stifled laughter. Mr. Collins attempted a smile, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. “I see,” he said cautiously. “Lady Catherine maintains that animals are best kept at a distance from refined company—but no doubt every family has its own… customs.”
“Indeed,” said Elizabeth sweetly, “and ours is to keep company only with those who behave.”
A ripple of amusement travelled round the table. Mr. Bennet’s mouth curved, Jane hid a smile in her napkin, and Lydia made an unladylike snort that she turned into a cough. Mrs. Bennet, however, coloured violently and hurried to change the subject, urging their guest to try the pie.
“Do have a slice, Mr. Collins,” she said with nervous zeal. “It is my own receipt, quite famous in Meryton, I assure you.”
Mr. Collins complied at once, taking a liberal portion. “Exquisite,” he declared solemnly. “So light, so decorous. I daresay Lady Catherine herself would approve such temperance in sweetness.”
Elizabeth, deciding she had heard enough of Lady Catherine for one meal, dropped a small piece of pie beneath the table. Pippin accepted the offering with silent dignity, chewing daintily before resuming her watchful position at her mistress’s feet.
“I hope you are taking notes, my love,” Elizabeth whispered, her tone low and conspiratorial. “You see? Civility begins with flattery and may ends with pastry.”
Pippin looked up, dark eyes gleaming, then turned her head toward Mr. Collins and released the faintest huff through her nose, as though her opinion of him had been firmly settled.
Elizabeth bit back a laugh. “Quite so,” she murmured. “You and I understand each other perfectly.”
Later that evening, when the house had quieted and the candles burned low, Elizabeth found herself alone in her chamber. Pippin lay curled upon the rug, still drowsy from her supper.
“Well, my dearest friend,” Elizabeth said, unpinning her hair, “our cousin is everything I expected, humble to the point of vanity, and pious without an ounce of sense. He reveres a lady he cannot equal and offends everyone else by imitation.”
Pippin blinked up at her, tail stirring faintly.
“Oh, you agree,” Elizabeth laughed softly. “I daresay you have more discernment than half the clergy in England. Still, he means no harm. We shall endure him, my dear, as we endure the weather.”
She knelt to stroke the dog’s silky head. “But if he speaks one more word of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I shall expect you to howl for mercy.”
Pippin yawned in perfect approval, settled her chin on Elizabeth’s slipper, and sighed as though the matter were closed.
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “A wise creature. The best company in Hertfordshire.”