CHAPTER SEVEN
AS IF FEARING THAT the family might have forgotten he was a clergyman overnight, Mr. Collins resumed the next morning precisely as he had left off, by preaching. From his chair at breakfast, he delivered a solemn discourse on the duty of family affection and the virtue of Christian forgiveness.
Elizabeth, seated beside Jane, hid her smile behind her teacup. The cadence of his speech, the moral tone, and his frequent nods to “propriety” reminded her of Mr. Fordyce’s Sermons—though without Fordyce’s elegance.
When he paused at last to sip his tea, Mr. Bennet said mildly, “You must find Longbourn a most suitable parish, cousin. There is sin enough here to furnish every sermon.”
Mrs. Bennet frowned at her husband’s levity. “Nonsense, Mr. Bennet. We are a most moral household.”
Mr. Collins inclined his head gravely. “Indeed, ma’am, I perceive it at once.
The harmony of this family quite overpowers me.
I flatter myself that, during my stay, I may be permitted to cultivate a closer acquaintance with my amiable cousins.
A clergyman cannot discharge his duty more respectably than by uniting prudence with affection—especially when Providence has placed before him such opportunities for domestic felicity. ”
His eyes passed thoughtfully around the table, resting a little longer upon Jane.
Mrs. Bennet brightened. “You are most considerate, sir. And speaking of family felicity, it is no secret that our eldest, Jane, has lately attracted the admiration of the most eligible gentleman in Hertfordshire. Only last week, Mr. Bingley asked her to dance twice. Twice, Mr. Collins! And he has already called at Longbourn to pay his respects.”
Elizabeth’s spoon paused halfway to her mouth. She understood her mother’s maneuver at once. Mrs. Bennet was steering their cousin away from Jane, but toward whom, if not herself?
Mr. Collins looked momentarily disappointed, then recovered with a smile of benevolent resignation.
“I rejoice to hear of Miss Bennet’s prospects.
Such a union, founded on mutual esteem, must bring comfort to all concerned.
Still,” he added, bowing slightly toward Elizabeth, “I trust there is no scarcity of amiability among her sisters.”
Elizabeth met his gaze politely. “You are very kind, sir. We are, all of us, quite ordinary.”
“Far from it, Miss Elizabeth,” he said earnestly. “A lady of lively understanding and modest temper is the crown of domestic happiness. The true companion of a clergyman must possess gentleness of spirit, yet strength enough to guide his leisure with grace.”
Mrs. Bennet clasped her hands. “Indeed, sir, how beautifully said.”
Jane's eyes dropped to her lap, color touching her cheeks. Lydia coughed into her fist. Kitty stared, unblinking, between the two. Mary remained perfectly still.
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “Then I hope you find such a lady, sir. She will be most fortunate in her choice.”
"Fortunately, Hertfordshire is not deficient in gentle ladies. We have at least two in this room alone—perhaps three, though I confess I sometimes lose count."
Mrs. Bennet's face flushed. "Mr. Bennet!"
Mr. Collins nodded with earnest approval. “I see that Mr. Bennet’s humour conceals much affection. My esteemed patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, often says that a cheerful disposition in a husband is the surest guard against female folly.”
Elizabeth raised her brows. “Does she indeed? Then Lady Catherine must have studied the subject closely.”
“Most profoundly,” he said. “She has been so good as to advise me to marry. She insists it completes a clergyman’s usefulness. And when I informed her of my intention to reconcile with my fair cousins, she most graciously approved the principle.”
Mrs. Bennet nearly glowed. “How right of her ladyship! A wife from among your relations—how proper indeed.”
Elizabeth bent her head, the corners of her mouth trembling with suppressed laughter. Beneath the table, Pippin gave a low sigh and pressed her nose against Elizabeth’s knee, as though sharing her opinion.
“Well, my dear,” Elizabeth murmured softly, “if he means to unite prudence and affection, I hope he begins with silence.”
Pippin blinked once in solemn agreement, then laid her head on her mistress’s slipper, as if the entire business of matchmaking bored her beyond endurance.
***
BY NOON, ELIZABETH HAD endured a complete tour of Hunsford Parsonage without leaving her chair.
It seemed Mr. Collins had taken her mother's advice to heart and had therefore decided to devote all his attention and conversation to her.
He had described every room, every window, the arrangement of Lady Catherine's shrubbery, and the moral advantages of living under her ladyship's immediate observation.
Elizabeth’s patience, long tested, was nearing its end.
“…and the greenhouse, Cousin Elizabeth, is not only spacious but condescendingly permitted to my use by her ladyship herself. Few clergymen, I dare say, enjoy such patronage. Indeed, Lady Catherine’s attention to the clergy is as maternal as it is distinguished.”
Elizabeth folded her hands, smiled faintly, and rose. “How very obliging of her, Mr. Collins. Now, if you will excuse me, I must take Pippin for her exercise before the day grows too warm.”
Mr. Collins leapt to his feet. “Ah! Then allow me to attend you, Cousin Elizabeth. Lady Catherine always remarks that a turn about the village promotes both health and reflection. I should be delighted to escort you.”
Pippin, who had kept her distance since Mr. Collins positioned himself in the chair nearest Elizabeth, barked sharply at his movement, startling him into silence.
Elizabeth caught her dog’s eye and said lightly, “You are very good, sir, but I am taking Pippin to the village green. She runs best when she can chase after butterflies without restraint. I am afraid she has little regard for polite walking.”
“Surely the garden is space enough for the creature to run about,” said Mrs. Bennet from her chair, fanning herself.
“Not quite, Mama,” Elizabeth replied. “She needs a proper stretch of field, or she grows restless and steals ribbons for amusement.”
Lydia laughed. “She tore mine yesterday and looked very pleased with herself.”
Mr. Collins, regaining his composure, cleared his throat. “I see she is of a lively disposition. Lady Catherine holds that animals should be obedient, though their temper may reflect too much freedom.”
At this, Pippin rose and stared at him with fixed attention, her head slightly tilted as though assessing his worth. When he attempted a smile, she gave a single, quiet bark.
Mr. Collins stepped back with visible unease. “A creature of intelligence, I perceive. I have always respected dogs, though from a safe distance.”
"An admirable precaution," Elizabeth said sweetly, grabbing and fastening Pippin's leash. "She tends to form her own opinions about people, and I never argue with her judgment."
Mr. Collins managed a nervous chuckle. “Then, I believe I shall remain here and converse with Miss Mary. I perceive she is reading Fordyce’s Sermons—a text Lady Catherine particularly esteems.”
Mary looked up, uncertain whether to feel honoured or alarmed. “Indeed, sir, I am.”
Elizabeth took the opportunity, fastening her cloak. “Enjoy your discussion, Mary. Pippin and I shall return before luncheon.”
“Do not stay long, Lizzy,” Mrs. Bennet called after her. “And keep that creature from rolling in the dust!”
Elizabeth smiled as she opened the door. “I shall do my best, Mama, though Pippin rarely obeys anyone but herself.”
The cool air met her like a gift. Pippin bounded ahead, tail wagging, pausing only to glance back as if to confirm their escape.
Elizabeth laughed softly. “Yes, my clever girl, we are safe for the moment. Between Mr. Collins and Lady Catherine, I think we have both earned this liberty.”
Pippin barked once in cheerful agreement, and together they made their happy retreat toward the village green.
***
THE AIR WAS CRISP and sweet with the scent of new grass when Pippin and her mistress began their walk.
They walked in silence for some time—nearly ten minutes—and neither seemed inclined to break it.
After the endless stream of Mr. Collins’s conversation, the quiet was a blessing they both required.
Elizabeth did not speak until they approached the green, and when she did, her voice was low and confiding.
"I know the entail matters to Mama, but there is absolutely no possibility of my marrying Mr. Collins."
Pippin gave a soft whine.
"I have told you already—if I am to marry at all, it must be for love and nothing else. I would sooner die a spinster than wed a man who has entirely surrendered his own judgment to his patroness's whims."
Pippin whined again, softer this time, as if in sympathy.
"You, fortunately, need not concern yourself with such complications. You are a natural charmer." Elizabeth’s tone turned teasing. "Did you not have Apollo positively besotted only days ago?"
At the name, Pippin’s ears pricked forward, her tail beginning to wag.
"Yes, I see. Even the mention of his name excites you."
They were nearly at the edge of the green when Pippin suddenly went rigid. Then, with a sharp whine, she lunged forward, yanking the leash clean from Elizabeth’s grasp.
"No, no, no—Pippin!"
But it was too late. The little spaniel was already bounding across the grass toward a familiar silver shape.
Elizabeth did not run—there was no point—but she quickened her pace with as much dignity as she could muster.
And then she saw him.
Mr. Darcy.
Of course. If Apollo was here, naturally his master would be as well, Elizabeth thought.
Apollo and Pippin collided in a joyful tangle of fur and wagging tails. Pippin’s trailing leash whipped through the air and caught the ankle of an elderly gentleman passing by. He stumbled, his walking stick clattering to the ground, and his hat went sailing into a hedge.