CHAPTER TWELVE
TWO DAYS AFTER their visit to Netherfield, Longbourn was unusually still in the early afternoon.
Mr. Bennet had retired to his library with a book and a glass of port, Kitty and Lydia were gone to their aunt Philips’s house in Meryton, and Jane remained upstairs with a mild headache.
The drawing room was peaceful; Elizabeth sat beside Mary, their workboxes open, while Pippin lay curled at Elizabeth’s feet, content with the quiet company of her mistress.
The tranquillity did not last. The door opened with a rustle of silk, and Mrs. Bennet swept in with the air of one bearing news of great importance. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling, and behind her followed Mr. Collins, looking both self-satisfied and nervous.
“My dear Lizzy,” Mrs. Bennet began breathlessly, clasping her hands together, “I have something most delightful to tell you. Mr. Collins wishes to speak with you in private, and I have given my full consent.”
Elizabeth started, the colour leaving her face. “Mama, surely—”
“No surelys, child. You must hear him out. Mary, be so good as to leave us.”
Mary looked up from her needlework with an air of displeasure. “May I ask what is so important that I must go?”
“Do not question me, Mary,” Mrs. Bennet said sharply. “Do as you are bid.”
With evident reluctance, Mary gathered her work and quitted the room. Pippin, disturbed by the rising tension, lifted her head and gave a faint growl.
Mrs. Bennet flinched. “That dreadful creature again! Lizzy, take her out this instant and chain her. I will not have her snapping at Mr. Collins during a delicate conversation.”
Elizabeth’s eyes flashed. “I have not chained Pippin in years, Mama. She is gentle, and far too sensible to interfere in human folly.”
Mr. Collins raised a hand with solemn magnanimity. “Pray, Mrs. Bennet, do not trouble yourself. Any creature dear to my fair cousin must be dear to me as well. Let her remain. It is a mark of sensibility in a lady to cherish her companion animals.”
Mrs. Bennet sniffed but said no more. “Very well. I shall be in the adjoining room should you need me,” she declared, and rustled out in a flurry of muslin and indignation.
The door was left slightly ajar. The moment they were alone, Elizabeth’s heart sank. She knew too well what was coming. Mr. Collins straightened, clasped his hands behind his back, and began his speech in tones of grave ceremony.
“My dear Miss Elizabeth, I flatter myself that you are not wholly ignorant of the purpose of my visit. As Lady Catherine so rightly observes, it is the duty of every clergyman to set an example of domestic propriety, and I could not be easy until I had chosen a wife. Having been so kindly received at Longbourn, I thought it proper to select one of my fair cousins, thereby securing my own happiness and, at the same time, making amends for any future disappointment which might arise from the entail.”
Elizabeth’s lips tightened. “Mr. Collins, I—”
He lifted a hand. “Allow me, I beg, to complete my declaration. My motives are, I assure you, most honourable. I am not insensible to your many attractions, nor to the prudence of forming such a connection. It is universally acknowledged that a young lady’s success depends on a respectable establishment, and what could be more proper than uniting the heir of Longbourn with one of its daughters?
I am convinced that your amiable disposition would ensure our felicity.
Therefore, Miss Elizabeth, I beg leave to solicit the honour of your hand in marriage. ”
Pippin gave a short, decisive bark, as if to punctuate the absurdity. Elizabeth reached down, stroking her to quiet, before answering.
“Mr. Collins, I am sincerely obliged by your proposal, but I cannot accept it.”
He smiled as though she had paid him a compliment.
“You are modest, cousin. It is the way of young ladies to refuse at first, though they mean to accept in the end. I shall not press you now. Reflect a little, and I am sure your heart will guide you aright. When next I renew my offer, I shall expect a happier answer.”
Elizabeth drew a slow breath, striving for calm. “You mistake me entirely, sir. My refusal is not the result of modesty, but of conviction. I had suspected your intention and considered it carefully. My answer will never change.”
Mr. Collins's face went slack. For three full seconds he simply gaped at her.
Then he blinked rapidly and reached for his handkerchief, dabbing at his forehead though the room was not warm.
"Mrs. Bennet will be... that is, she expressly told me.
.." He tucked the handkerchief away with shaking hands.
"No. No, you are simply startled by the honor.
I have been too hasty. I shall return when you have had time to consult your mother and compose yourself. "
At that moment, Pippin growled again, her little frame bristling. Mr. Collins stepped back with visible alarm, muttered something about excitable temperaments, and, after a hasty bow, withdrew with an air of injured dignity.
Elizabeth exhaled deeply and bent to her dog. “Good girl,” she whispered. “You have more sense than half the men in Hertfordshire.”
She had hardly risen when the door burst open again. Mrs. Bennet entered in a flutter. “I saw him leaving by the garden path! He did not look pleased. Lizzy, what have you done?”
Elizabeth turned on her mother with quiet intensity. “What I had to do. You knew he meant to propose, and you let him.”
“Of course I did! What mother in her senses would not? Mr. Collins is a most respectable man and your best prospect. Do you imagine young men of fortune will fall in love with every country girl who argues and walks about with her dog?”
Elizabeth’s cheeks flushed, though her voice remained steady. “You mistake me, Mama. I would rather remain single than marry a man without mind or feeling.”
Mrs. Bennet threw up her hands. “There it is! You still think yourself a girl, Lizzy Bennet, forever with that dog at your heels, as if the affection of a pet could replace the devotion of a husband. Dogs do not live long, my dear. When Pippin leaves you—and she will—no one else will stay either.”
Pippin barked sharply, affronted, and Elizabeth laid a calming hand upon her head. “Then I shall make my peace with solitude,” she said quietly, “for I shall never marry where I cannot respect.”
“Foolish child!” Mrs. Bennet cried. “You are determined to ruin yourself. I must fetch your father at once. Perhaps he can bring you to your senses!”
When she had gone, the room seemed to exhale. Elizabeth sat down again, gathering Pippin into her lap. The firelight flickered over her thoughtful face as she stroked the dog’s soft ears.
“At least you understand me, my love,” she murmured. “And that, for now, is comfort enough.”
Pippin nestled closer with a low sigh, as though to agree, and together they sat, the mistress and her little guardian, in the quiet glow of the hearth.
***
MRS. BENNET'S EXPECTATIONS were swiftly dashed. Contrary to her hopes, Mr. Bennet—having heard both the proposal and its refusal—made no attempt to persuade Elizabeth to reconsider. He regarded his daughter with quiet approval.
“Mr. Bennet,” Mrs. Bennet began, wringing her hands, “you must speak to her! She has refused Mr. Collins—positively refused him! After all my pains to secure her a comfortable home, she has thrown it all away. You must make her see sense.”
Mr. Bennet looked up from his chair, where he sat with his spectacles low on his nose and a book open upon his knee. “Has she indeed?” he said mildly. “Then I am to congratulate her, I suppose.”
“Congratulate her?” cried Mrs. Bennet. “You are beside yourself! She has refused the only man in the world who could save us from ruin. Do you not see that when you are gone, your daughters will be turned out into the hedgerows?”
Mr. Bennet laid his book aside with exasperating calm. “My dear, if Lizzy does not wish to marry Mr. Collins, she shall not. I have no intention of forcing any of my daughters to be miserable for my estate’s convenience.”
Elizabeth, who had been silent, looked at him with relief and gratitude. “Thank you, Papa.”
Mrs. Bennet gasped. “So you take her part in this? You always do! You take a perverse delight in destroying your daughters’ prospects. What will become of us all when you are dead and gone?”
“I take delight in very little, my dear,” he replied evenly, “save peace at my own table. And I can assure you, there would have been none if Elizabeth had married your cousin. I have seen that gentleman’s manners long enough to know he would make a very tedious husband.”
Mrs. Bennet gave a cry of despair and flung herself into a chair. “Oh, you will be the ruin of us all! To think I should live to see a daughter refuse an offer of marriage!”
“Then take comfort, my love,” said Mr. Bennet with quiet humour, “for it will not be the last.”
Elizabeth tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress a smile. Her father caught it and winked at her before resuming his book, while Mrs. Bennet muttered about ungrateful children and heartless husbands all the way to the parlour.
Thus, dinner that evening bore all the marks of discomfort. Mrs. Bennet sighed and scolded by turns, Mr. Collins was stiff and silent, and only Pippin seemed at ease, sitting dutifully at Elizabeth’s feet, tail wagging whenever a morsel found its way down to her.
Kitty and Lydia, who had already heard every detail of their cousin’s mortification, seemed entirely unbothered by the tension. They filled the silence with chatter of their afternoon visit to Meryton and their aunt Philips’s lively gossip.
“You should have seen the officers, Mama!” Lydia cried. “There are so many of them now! And the handsomest of all is Mr. Wickham—he is charming, I swear it!”
Kitty shook her head eagerly. “No, Lydia, you are blinded by your own fancy. Mr. Denny is far more handsome. He dances better, too.”