CHAPTER 2
Remote and somewhat hidden from the outer world of Hertfordshire, the small and picturesque village of Longbourn was nestled in the heart of a large valley, which made it a place of tranquil beauty.
Its lanes, though not wide, were neat and well accustomed to the modest traffic of carts, riders, and parish visitors; and the cottages which stood along them, softened by climbing roses, weathered brick, and garden hedges carefully kept, gave to the whole prospect an air of settled comfort rather than of consequence.
With its winding lanes lined with cottages adorned with flowering gardens, it embodied all the charms one would expect of an English countryside settlement.
At the centre of this idyllic place stood the Bennet family home, a handsome estate that exuded warmth and elegance.
Longbourn itself was not a seat to command awe at a distance, but one to recommend itself more strongly by habitation than by first appearance; it had, in its windows, walks, and well-used rooms, the unmistakable character of a house thoroughly lived in by a family at once affectionate, opinionated, careless in some respects, and exacting in others.
Within the walls of this beloved abode resided the Bennet family, a lively group of individuals, each possessing their own unique qualities.
The head of the household, Mr. Bennet, was a gentleman of wit and discernment, often finding amusement in the antics of his wife and daughters.
His pleasures were chiefly domestic, though not always participatory; for he preferred, when occasion allowed, to observe rather than prevent, to laugh rather than correct, and to retreat to his books whenever the clamour of family life threatened to require from him more steady application than his indolence approved.
His dry humour and occasional bursts of sarcasm provided a counterbalance to the more excitable nature of his spouse.
Mrs. Bennet, a woman of great energy and determination, was primarily occupied with securing advantageous marriages for her five daughters.
Her enthusiasm for matchmaking knew no bounds, and her intentions were always doubled by genuine maternal love and concern for the offspring’s happiness.
That her plans were not always coherent did not prevent them from being earnest; nor did their frequent alteration diminish, in her own estimation, the wisdom from which they sprang.
If she was at times imprudent, she was never indifferent; and if she alarmed, she also loved.
The eldest of the Bennet sisters, Jane, was blessed with extraordinary beauty and a gentle, compassionate nature.
Her benevolent spirit endeared her to all who had the pleasure of making her acquaintance, and she was known throughout the village as a paragon of kindness and grace.
There was in Jane such an habitual sweetness of temper, such reluctance to suspect wrong, and such readiness to excuse it when found, that even those who might have preferred more animation were compelled to admire her.
Elizabeth, the second sister, was gifted with a lively mind and quick wit that could engage the most discerning gentlemen.
Possessing a fiercely independent streak, Elizabeth cherished her own opinions and often found herself at odds with society’s expectations.
Despite the strength of her character, she remained a steadfast favourite of her father and a loyal confidante to her elder sister.
Her spirits, though lively, were not careless; she observed more than she confessed, judged more than she declared, and brought to every subject a readiness of perception which, in a quieter girl, might have produced reserve, but in Elizabeth produced conversation.
The younger Bennet siblings, Mary, Kitty, and Lydia, each displayed their distinct characters.
Mary, studious and severe, found solace in her books and her music, while the spirited Kitty and Lydia were ever in pursuit of excitement, militia officers and adventure.
Together, they formed a family of diverse talents and temperaments, united by their affection for one another.
Kitty’s opinions generally followed the strongest voice nearest to her, while Lydia, secure in the liveliness of her own, seldom found reason to borrow anybody else’s.
Mary, by contrast, borrowed her sentiments chiefly from improving authors, and valued them more in proportion as others valued them less.
As the sun rose over Longbourn, casting its golden light upon the Bennet home, it seemed as though the day would unfold like any other; and there was in the stillness of the hour nothing to suggest that a name, unknown the evening before, should before breakfast become the subject of the whole household’s curiosity, alarm, speculation, and amusement.
The morning daylight cast a dappled pattern of shadows through the lace curtains of the drawing room, where Mr. Bennet sat, ensconced in his favourite armchair with a newspaper in hand.
He was less occupied by its contents than by the convenience of appearing occupied; for though his eyes moved with sufficient regularity down the columns, his attention had more than once wandered to the domestic scene around him, and returned from it not entirely displeased.
Elizabeth had taken her place near the window, a book open on her lap, but her thoughts were elsewhere, carried away by the gentle rustling of green leaves outside.
The volume itself had not been neglected from want of interest, but from the competing attraction of a mild morning, a quiet room, and that species of indolent reflection to which a young woman of active mind will sometimes abandon herself when no immediate duty compels her otherwise.
Mrs. Bennet, seated opposite with her workbasket beside her, had already expressed dissatisfaction with the weather twice—first because it threatened rain, and then because it did not; Jane had answered her each time with the same good-humoured attention; Mary had arranged and rearranged a pile of music on the pianoforte, as if conscience required preparation even where performance had not yet been requested; and Kitty and Lydia, not wholly awake to sobriety at that hour, had divided their interest between the window, the breakfast remnants, and each other’s unfinished remarks.
“Ah, Jennings!” Mr. Bennet exclaimed as their long-serving old maid entered the room, bearing a silver tray with a letter set on it. “What news have you brought us this fine morning?”
“Good ones, I hope, sir,” the maid replied, presenting the letter to Mr. Bennet. “This missive arrived just now, and I thought it best to bring it directly.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Bennet said, taking the letter and breaking the seal.
His brow furrowed as he read the contents, a flicker of surprise crossing his countenance.
He read more slowly toward the close than at the beginning; then once again from a point near the middle, as if to assure himself that the writer had not, through some private defect of judgement or penmanship, conveyed more than he intended. “Well, this is most unexpected.”
“Pray, Mr. Bennet, do not keep us in suspense!” Mrs. Bennet almost cried from across the room, her needlework momentarily abandoned on her lap. “What does the letter say?”
“Forgive me, my dear,” Mr. Bennet replied, folding the parchment neatly, with a deliberation which had no object but to increase her impatience. “The vicar position at Hunsford was filled quite differently than we expected.”
“Filled?—but not by Mr. Collins?” Mrs. Bennet echoed, her eyes widening with concern. “But how could this be? We had every assurance that our dear cousin, Mr. Collins, would receive that appointment!”
“Indeed,” Mr. Bennet mused, tapping the folded letter against his chin. “But since Collins himself writes to me about this, I have no motive to deny a fact. It would seem that another gentleman has secured the post. A certain Mr. George Wickham.”
Mr. Bennet unfolded the letter once more, as if the writer’s own sentiments deserved a hearing in his own voice.
“Mr. Collins, it seems, bears the disappointment with a fortitude highly becoming his character,” he added, with composed gravity.
“He expresses himself most sensibly on the subject of resignation, though not without observing that the expectations which had been encouraged in him were of a nature to render the event peculiarly affecting. He is, however, reconciled—at least upon paper—and already disposed to consider the advantages which may yet arise from his continued connection with his noble patroness.”
“Mr. Wickham?” asked Jane softly, her gentle features creased with curiosity. “I do not believe we have made his acquaintance.”
“Nor I,” chimed in Elizabeth, her interest piqued. “I wonder what manner of man he may be to have secured such a position over our cousin.”
“Likely one with more merit than Mr. Collins,” interjected Mary, looking up from her pianoforte’s pile of sheet music.
“Mary!” scolded Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head. “That is no way to speak of your cousin. He may not be the most engaging gentleman, but he is family, after all, is he not?”
“You are right, my dear,” Mr. Bennet agreed, though a mischievous glint in his eye betrayed his true sentiments.
“We must not be too quick to judge this Mr. Wickham, for we know nothing of his character yet. Though I must admit, I am rather curious about the man who has supplanted our dear cousin in the eyes of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”
This last observation, delivered with apparent calm, had precisely the effect he intended; for it elevated the whole matter from mere disappointment into intrigue.
Lydia sat up straighter. Kitty ceased whispering.
Even Mary looked as though moral evaluation might temporarily yield to narrative interest.