CHAPTER 5
The afternoon, though already somewhat advanced, had not yet lost the softer brightness which follows a clear Sunday morning, and before the inn at Hunsford there stood, a little removed from the road and partly shaded by an old elm, a plain wooden table with several chairs set about it for the accommodation of such travellers as preferred air to enclosure.
It was there that Mr. Bennet, Elizabeth, and Mr. Collins had established themselves after their return from church, the one from indifference to all arrangements so long as he was left in peace, the second from a desire, scarcely acknowledged even to herself, to remain where she might observe without seeming to do so, and the third because the landlord, having learned by this time the connection of his guests with Rosings, had exerted himself to render their temporary residence as respectable as possible.
A dish of cold meat, some bread, and a decanter, together with Mrs. Bennet’s travelling basket, from which various lesser comforts had already been produced and praised, occupied the table between them; and though the meal had been in great measure dispatched, Mr. Collins continued to sit as one still engaged with it, his knife and fork more frequently adjusted than used, while he laboured to reconcile the mortification of his morning with that species of complacency which long practice had taught him to draw from every mark of notice bestowed by persons above him.
“The sermon,” he said, after one of those pauses in which he seemed to have been collecting a form of words worthy at once of the subject and of himself, “was, upon the whole, very properly delivered, Mr. Bennet. There were, I grant, some interruptions—some slight irregularities of manner—yet these, in a first appearance, are not only pardonable, but perhaps to be expected; and when one considers the difficulty of entering at once upon so respectable a charge, under the immediate eye of so discerning a patroness as Lady Catherine de Bourgh, one must allow much for natural agitation.”
Mr. Bennet, who had leaned back in his chair with that air of languid ease which in him often covered more observation than anybody supposed, turned his head slightly toward him.
“You are rather generous, Cousin,” he said. “I had not before known that natural agitation could so nearly resemble defeat.”
Mr. Collins coloured, but only for a moment; for though he was not always quick in apprehending ridicule, he had in this instance sufficient consciousness of his own position to feel the edge of it.
“My dear sir,” he returned, with forced composure, “you are pleased to be severe. I would never presume to deny that Mr. Wickham experienced some embarrassment, but I must insist that such embarrassment arose from causes perfectly compatible with merit. A young clergyman, newly established—newly honoured—newly entrusted—cannot be expected to appear at once with all the self-possession of age.”
“Nor, perhaps,” Elizabeth said, who had hitherto been more occupied in tracing with her finger the grain of the table than in joining the conversation, “with all the collectedness of one who had no reason to be surprised.”
Mr. Collins looked at her with a solemnity which suggested that her meaning, though imperfectly understood, was not wholly approved.
“You allude, I suppose, to the arrival of Mr. Darcy,” he said.
“His appearance was, certainly, unexpected; and as he is a gentleman of consequence, and a relation of Lady Catherine, the effect upon the congregation could not be inconsiderable. Yet I should be sorry to imagine that Mr. Wickham, who owes much to recommendation and patronage, would suffer himself to be discomposed by the mere sight of any gentleman, however respectable.”
Elizabeth made no reply to this. She had no wish to pursue a point from which she could expect neither satisfaction nor candour; and besides, her attention, though she had seemed to resign it to the table and to Mr. Collins, was in reality of a wider range.
The road, which turned just beyond the inn-yard and was there somewhat raised above the meadow, lay fully within her view; and more than once, without any very clear reason for doing so, she had directed her eyes toward it.
Mr. Bennet, who noticed more in his daughter than he always chose to reveal, followed once the direction of her glance, and then, as if the matter were of no consequence, took up the decanter.
“You are thinking, Lizzy,” he said, “either of Mr. Wickham’s sermon, which would do your taste no credit, or of Mr. Darcy’s countenance, which would do your prudence as little.”
Elizabeth turned quickly toward him, half-amused and half-provoked.
“You do me injustice in both cases, sir. I am not so constant to error as to meditate long upon bad divinity; and as for Mr. Darcy’s countenance, I cannot answer for what expression it may have worn to other eyes, but to mine it was not so self-satisfied as one might have expected.”
“Ah!” Mr. Collins intervened, leaning forward with sudden importance.
“Then you admit, Miss Elizabeth, that Mr. Darcy is a gentleman of distinguished presence? I had, indeed, formed a very favourable opinion of him from what little I saw. His manners, though grave, appeared highly finished; and his entrance, if I may be allowed the expression, had in it something of the true style of superior life.”
“I did not speak of his superiority, Cousin,” Elizabeth replied, smiling. “Only that he did not appear perfectly pleased with what he saw.”
“Which,” returned Mr. Bennet, “places him, for once, in the rank of ordinary mortals.”
Mr. Collins was preparing, by the drawing down of his waistcoat and the elevation of his chin, to speak again at length, when the sound of approaching hoofs upon the road, still softened by distance, caused Elizabeth to look up once more; and this time the object of her attention soon became distinct.
A gentleman on horseback had just emerged from the turn, and though the light fell somewhat across his figure, rendering it at first uncertain to less interested observers, there was no difficulty to Elizabeth in identifying him.
The same composed seat, the same erect carriage, the same unstudied command of person and movement, announced him before his features could be clearly distinguished.
Her hand, which had rested near her untouched glass, drew back from it almost involuntarily.
Mr. Bennet, following her look again, gave a short glance toward the road.
“Well,” he said, in a lower tone than before, “if one thinks of a man, it seems there is no great difficulty in bringing him into view.”
Mr. Collins started, half-rose, then sat again, then rose in earnest; for by this time the horseman had turned into the inn-yard, and there could no longer be any doubt that it was Mr. Darcy.
He dismounted without haste, delivered the reins to the ostler who had hastened forward, and then, as if only in that moment discovering who occupied the table beneath the elm, paused very slightly before approaching.
The pause was not long enough to be called hesitation; yet it had in it something of collectedness, as though he had not expected the encounter, and meant, before advancing, to determine in what spirit it should be met.
Mr. Collins bowed almost before Darcy had reached them.
“Mr. Darcy! What an honour, sir—what a very particular honour—to meet you again so soon after the solemnities of the morning.”
Darcy returned his bow with perfect civility, and then addressed Mr. Bennet.
“Mr. Bennet. Miss Bennet. Mr. Collins.” His eyes, though they rested upon each in turn, returned more than once to Elizabeth with a degree of attention which, in any other company, might scarcely have been remarked, but which, in the presence of her father and cousin, could not be wholly without significance.
“I did not expect the pleasure of meeting you here.”
“We are at the inn, as you perceive,” said Mr. Bennet. “Having no claim to Rosings beyond a dinner and a sermon, we judged retreat the safer policy.”
A faint, involuntary expression of amusement passed over Darcy’s countenance, and was as quickly subdued.
“It was, I imagine, the proper one.”
“Properness,” returned Mr. Bennet, “is a word that follows us about with uncommon perseverance in Kent. Pray, will you sit, sir, or are you only collecting more clergy for Lady Catherine?”
Mr. Collins let out a little sound which was intended for approbation of the pleasantry, though accompanied by uneasiness lest it had been too bold.
Darcy accepted the offered chair, though not, Elizabeth observed, until Mr. Bennet’s tone had made refusal more pointed than acquiescence.
When seated, he appeared at once composed and attentive, yet there remained in his manner something less guarded than she had before seen in him, perhaps because neither Lady Catherine nor the church was now between them and ordinary speech.
“I had gone out to see something of the neighbourhood,” Mr. Darcy said, “and did not expect to find acquaintances at the close of my ride.”
“The neighbourhood,” said Elizabeth, who could not forbear smiling a little, “must be singularly fortunate in being thought worth inspection by a gentleman just arrived from London.”
Darcy turned toward her fully now. “It is not every neighbourhood, Miss Bennet,” he said, “that offers equal inducements.”
There was nothing in the words which could justly be called particular; yet, from the way in which he said them, they seemed less general than they ought to have been. Elizabeth felt this, and, because she felt it, became rather more playful than prudence advised.
“Then Hunsford must congratulate itself, and so, perhaps, must the inn.”