CHAPTER 3
The road into Hunsford was narrower and quieter than any Elizabeth had lately traveled, and though the country through which they passed possessed none of the varied liveliness of Hertfordshire, it had a settled softness of its own that gradually recommended itself to the eye.
The hedgerows were close and green, the fields well kept, and the village itself, when at last it came into view, appeared with that air of modest order which speaks less of grandeur than of long submission to habit, propriety, and the watchful influence of a superior house.
The parsonage, when Mr. Collins pointed it out with a mixture of eagerness and constraint, stood at no great distance, modest in size and plain in aspect, yet not without a certain rural prettiness.
Its situation, however, did not long detain them; for, as they had not been expected, and as Mr. Collins, despite all his confidence, did not think it proper to present himself in company either at the parsonage or at Rosings without some previous notice of his arrival, it was thought advisable that they should first secure accommodation at a nearby inn, which he remembered from his earlier visit to the neighbourhood, when he had first been received at Rosings, and which lay little more than a mile from Rosings Park.
“I remember it perfectly,” Mr. Collins declared, leaning a little forward as the carriage turned into the inn-yard.
“A decent house, very decently conducted. The people are respectful, and, what is of still greater consequence, properly sensible of the honour done them by receiving travellers who may, at any moment, be connected with Rosings in a more particular manner.”
Mr. Bennet, who had listened to this recollection without interruption, now looked out of the carriage window and remarked, “Then we are fortunate indeed, for I should be sorry to lodge where our consequence might be imperfectly understood.”
Elizabeth bit her lip to keep from smiling, while Mr. Collins, uncertain for a moment whether the observation were wholly serious, elected to treat it as such, and responded “By all means, cousin—most certainly so,” with a solemnity proportioned to the dignity of the subject.
Upon entering the inn, they found it clean, quiet, and sufficiently respectable to satisfy even Mr. Collins’s present anxiety.
Their luggage was carried up; a private parlour was offered; and, after some discussion respecting the propriety of dining at once or waiting until they had refreshed themselves, it was settled that some cold provisions and soup should be brought without delay.
Mr. Collins, however, had business more urgent than hunger.
He requested writing materials before he requested anything else.
“It would be highly improper,” he insisted, “to remain within so short a distance of Rosings without immediately apprising Lady Catherine de Bourgh of my arrival. I shall write at once, and in terms I trust, at once respectful, clear, and expressive of my unchanged gratitude. Her ladyship cannot but approve such attention.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Mr. Bennet. “The delay of an hour might shake her whole establishment.”
Mr. Collins sat down at a side table with ink, paper, and an importance equal to either, while Mr. Bennet and Elizabeth took their places nearer the window of the dining room, from which they could see a portion of the road and the lower sweep of grounds beyond the village.
It was while waiting there, that Elizabeth first observed the lady seated alone at a table near the fire.
She was no longer in the first bloom of youth, though far from advanced in years.
Her dress was good and her manner well-bred, yet there was something in her whole appearance which suggested recent disturbance rather than habitual melancholy.
She was not weeping, nor making any display of distress; but the lady sat with the air of one who had been forced too suddenly out of a settled course of life and had not yet learned how to compose herself to the interruption.
Her soup remained almost untouched. Twice she lifted her spoon, and twice laid it down again.
Elizabeth watched her a little longer than she was aware of doing, until Mr. Bennet, who observed his daughter more closely than she knew, remarked quietly, “You are forming a history for that poor lady already, Lizzy.”
“I am only wondering whether she has one,” Elizabeth replied, lowering her voice. “She seems unhappy.”
“So do half the people who travel,” Mr. Bennet said. “And a quarter of those who stay at home.”
“But not all have that look,” Elizabeth countered. “There is something more than common vexation in her face.”
Mr. Bennet glanced once toward the stranger and then back at Elizabeth. “Take care,” he cautioned. “Compassion is an excellent quality, but it has a way of introducing us to more history than we bargain for.”
“That has not always proved a misfortune,” she returned; and, after another moment’s hesitation, in which her native delicacy contended with her curiosity and kindness, she rose and crossed the room.
The lady looked up as Elizabeth approached, and though surprise was visible in her countenance, it was not joined by displeasure.
“I beg your pardon,” Elizabeth said, with that graceful frankness which often disarmed where greater ceremony might have failed, “if I am guilty of intrusion. I only feared, from your appearing unwell or uneasy, that you might be in want of some assistance.”
The lady’s expression softened at once. “You are very obliging,” she replied. “I am not ill—only somewhat… discomposed.”
“Then I hope the cause may not be lasting,” Elizabeth said. “My father is here with me, and if either of us could be of use—”
At that moment, Mr. Bennet, perceiving that retreat would now be more awkward than approach, came slowly forward and made his bow. Elizabeth then added, “Allow me to present my father, Mr. Bennet. I am Elizabeth Bennet.”
The stranger returned his civility and, after the slightest pause, said, “Mrs. Jenkinson.”
The name conveyed nothing to Elizabeth; but Mr. Collins, who had by now sealed his letter and was advancing across the room with the self-satisfaction of a man who had discharged a delicate duty, no sooner heard it than he started visibly.
“Mrs. Jenkinson!” Mr. Collins exclaimed. “Can it be possible? Mrs. Jenkinson of Rosings?”
She turned toward him with equal surprise. “Mr. Collins.”
“My dear madam,” Mr. Collins hurried forward, “this is indeed astonishing. I had not the smallest expectation of meeting you here. I trust Miss de Bourgh is well? I trust Lady Catherine is well? I trust all at Rosings continues exactly as it ought?”
Something in the rapidity of these inquiries, or perhaps in the names themselves, seemed to touch a tender point; for Mrs. Jenkinson’s composure wavered, and the expression of contained uneasiness which Elizabeth had first noticed returned more strongly than before.
“I thank you, sir,” the sad lady said. “Miss de Bourgh is in health as usual. Lady Catherine—” She stopped. “Rosings is much altered.”
Mr. Collins, though not remarkable for discernment where his own hopes were concerned, was not insensible to the gravity of her tone. “Altered?” he repeated. “In what respect?”
Mrs. Jenkinson glanced uncertainly at Mr. Bennet and Elizabeth, as if doubtful whether she ought to continue before strangers; but distress had already disposed her to confidence, and the kindness with which Elizabeth regarded her seemed to decide the matter.
“Perhaps it is time to declare I have lately quitted Rosings,” Mrs. Jenkinson explained calmly.
“Quitted it!” Mr. Collins exclaimed. “You? Miss de Bourgh’s companion?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Jenkinson hesitated before saying more.
Mr. Bennet now spoke for the first time since his introduction. “I hope not under disagreeable circumstances, madam.”
Mrs. Jenkinson gave a faint smile, the very faintness of which made it more affecting than tears. “Under circumstances which I do not yet fully understand myself, sir.”
Elizabeth took the chair opposite her without waiting for invitation, though with so natural and respectful an air that none could call it bold. “You were dismissed, madam?” she asked gently.
“Not in so many words.” Mrs. Jenkinson sighed lightly. “Yet I was given to understand that my attendance was no longer required.”
Mr. Collins coloured. “This is most extraordinary—most painful—most wholly unlike anything one should expect under Lady Catherine’s roof.”
“Extraordinary, certainly,” Mr. Bennet observed. “Though households, like govern-ments, are not always most intelligible to those who live nearest them.”
Mrs. Jenkinson looked at him with some gratitude, as if relieved to be addressed without excessive exclamation.
“I had been with Miss de Bourgh a considerable time,” she continued.
“Long enough, at least, to flatter myself that, if a change were ever intended, I should not have been taken entirely by surprise. Yet within these last days every arrangement has seemed liable to alteration.”
“Since the new vicar came?” Elizabeth asked.
Mrs. Jenkinson’s eyes rose quickly to her face. “You know, then, that there is a new vicar?”
“We know only that there is expected to be one shortly,” Mr. Bennet said, “and that his name is probably Mr. Wickham.”
At this, even Mr. Collins could not preserve the studied composure he had worn since entering the inn. “Mr. George Wickham,” he said, with measured effort. “A gentleman whose communication to me has, I confess, occasioned no small perplexity.”
Mrs. Jenkinson pressed her lips together. “He has occasioned no small perplexity at Rosings also.”
Elizabeth’s curiosity, already active, now became intent. “In what manner, if I may ask?” she inquired.