Chapter 4 #2
“And this,” said Mr. Bennet, drawing slightly aside as if to bring his companion into the light rather than into prominence, with a subtle gesture that conveyed both introduction and quiet pride, “is my cousin’s son—Mr. William Collins.”
Mrs. Bennet’s look altered in an instant into something that might, at a charitable distance, be called graciousness—though a keen observer might have detected the rapid calculation beneath her smile.
She dropped into a curtsy which, though not quite so low as it would have been for a baronet’s lady, was still sufficiently emphatic to declare that she did not mean to be outdone by anybody in acknowledging consequence, whenever she could discover it.
“Mr. Collins! How do you do, sir? You are exceedingly welcome, I am sure—though I confess,” lowering her voice a fraction and darting an expressive glance at her husband that spoke volumes of prior grievance, “I had imagined Portsmouth produced nothing but sailors and fevers. Pray come in. You must be quite worn out.”
William bowed, and in the very act of it displayed that propriety which disarms criticism; for he had none of that awkward eagerness which courts approval, nor yet the stiff silence which seems to scorn it—his movement precise, his expression serene.
“You are very obliging, madam,” said he, in a voice young, but steady, and pleasantly modulated, without the roughness one might expect from his origins. “The journey has been pleasant, and I am sensible of the honor of being admitted at Longbourn.”
Mrs. Bennet blinked—half pleased, half puzzled—at hearing the word honor applied to her house, her cheeks coloring faintly as she absorbed the unexpected compliment; and she would have replied with greater warmth still, had not the maid’s hurried announcement of her husband’s arrival already drawn the daughters together in the parlor, where they now waited in eager expectancy.
They had assembled at once upon hearing that their father was come—Jane laying aside her needlework, Mary closing her book with care, and the younger girls abandoning their whispered conjectures—so that all were present when Mrs. Bennet turned toward them, no formal summons being required.
“Girls,” said Mrs. Bennet, with brisk authority heightened by excitement, “pray attend. Your cousin is here.”
“My dears,” said Mr. Bennet, with a faint smile that betrayed his private amusement at the scene unfolding, “this is Mr. William Collins.”
Then considering he has had allowed his wife’s effusions to exhaust themselves without interference, he added with quiet composure.
“My daughters, Mr. Collins,” Mr. Bennet said, in a tone at once civil and gently authoritative. “My eldest is Jane.”
Jane advanced a step, her manner unembarrassed and gracious, and made her curtsey with a sweetness that required no instruction. William bowed to her with respectful precision, struck at once by her calm countenance and unaffected kindness.
“My second is Elizabeth,” Mr. Bennet continued.
Elizabeth followed, her curtsey less studied but perfectly proper, her eyes bright with intelligent curiosity as they met William’s. There was nothing bold in her look, yet nothing vacant; she observed him as one might examine a new book whose title promises more than its binding suggests.
“This is Mary.”
Mary inclined herself gravely, with a seriousness that suggested she felt the importance of the introduction keenly, and regarded their cousin with an expression of thoughtful scrutiny, as though already considering what sort of mind he might possess.
“And these two,” Mr. Bennet added, with the faintest softening of his voice, “are Catherine and Lydia.”
Kitty curtsied hastily and would have retreated at once, but Lydia, scarcely nine and full of impatient animation, bobbed again—less from politeness than from eagerness—and stared up at William with open interest, as though Portsmouth itself were written upon his coat.
William acknowledged each in turn with careful courtesy, his attention evenly distributed, his manner free from either condescension or awkward self-consciousness; and in doing so, he gave no offence to the elder girls, nor encouragement to the younger—an equilibrium which Mrs. Bennet observed with cautious approval, and which Mr. Bennet noted with silent satisfaction.
William bowed again—first to Jane, then to Elizabeth, then to Mary, and lastly to the two youngest, who curtsied with such unequal success that Mrs. Bennet’s eye twitched with suppressed anxiety, her hand fluttering briefly as if she might correct their posture from afar.
“How do you do, cousin?” cried Lydia at once, as if relationship were a right of address rather than a privilege to be measured, her voice ringing with unbridled enthusiasm. “Have you ever seen a cannon? Papa says Portsmouth has cannons.”
“Lydia!” exclaimed Mrs. Bennet, in a tone of mingled rebuke and alarm, her color rising as she cast a mortified glance toward their guest. “You will not begin with cannons. Mr. Collins is not come here to speak of guns.”
William’s lips moved—whether into a smile or into a struggle against one was not immediately clear, though a faint warmth touched his eyes; but when he answered, he did so with such gravity that Lydia, who expected either scolding or laughter, stared at him as if he had produced a rabbit from his pocket.
“I have seen cannons, Miss Lydia,” he replied, “and I confess I liked them less than I like peace.”
“How very proper!” said Mary, approvingly, nodding with solemn satisfaction, as if the remark were made expressly for her benefit.
“And do you like books?” asked Kitty timidly, twisting her fingers in her apron, for Kitty loved whatever was safe to enquire.
“I do,” he said. “They are very good company, when one wishes to be improved.”
Lydia made a face; Elizabeth, whose eyes had been alive to every turn of his speech, and who had noted the quiet intelligence behind his measured words, exchanged one rapid glance with Jane that meant he is serious—but not foolish.
Mrs. Bennet, discovering that the young man neither stared, nor blundered, nor spoke nonsense, began at once to regard him with a sort of cautious satisfaction, like a person who has feared a draught and finds only a mild breeze—her initial reservations melting into tentative approval.
“You must be quite hungry, both of you,” she declared, recovering her footing in the familiar world of feeding and managing, with a decisive wave toward the dining room.
“We shall have dinner directly. Hill!—pray send word to the cook that dinner must be punctual; we are not to have things cold today.”
“My dear,” said Mr. Bennet, as the party moved toward the drawing-room, “I have reason to believe dinner will be punctual, whether she is told or not.”
Mrs. Bennet looked as if she would have answered sharply, but she remembered herself before a guest, pressing her lips together briefly, and only murmured, “You are always laughing at everybody, Mr. Bennet.”
“I try to laugh at nobody,” he replied, “but I cannot always succeed.”
Dinner that evening, though conducted with no more than the usual ceremony of a country family, had in it that quiet novelty which makes even plain dishes appear better than usual, the table bright with its familiar china and the air scented with roasted mutton and summer herbs.
William sat opposite Mrs. Bennet, between Mary and Kitty—an arrangement which Mrs. Bennet would not have chosen had she consulted her own taste for consequence, but which Mr. Bennet had contrived with an air of innocence that defied complaint, his eyes twinkling faintly as he took his place at the head.
For a time the conversation fell, as it often did, into the safe channels of roads, weather, and the tolerable condition of the country; yet even in those trifles William spoke with a neat exactness that pleased Mr. Bennet, drawing from him an occasional nod of quiet approbation, and with a respectful attention that pleased Mrs. Bennet still more.
“You find Hertfordshire very quiet, I suppose?” said Mrs. Bennet, watching him closely, fork poised as if ready to pounce on any misstep, as if a single wrong word would prove him unfit for society.
“It is quiet,” he answered, “but I do not think quiet must always mean dull. There is a certain comfort in regularity.”
“That is what I have always said,” Mary observed, delighted to find herself supported, straightening in her chair with evident self-importance.
Lydia, who had been picking at her bread with increasing impatience, broke in. “Do you ever play any tricks, cousin? Kitty says boys are always playing tricks.”
William’s fork paused. Mr. Bennet’s eyes, over the rim of his glass, began to sparkle with anticipatory mischief.
“A trick?” repeated William, as if consulting his conscience for the proper definition, his brow furrowing slightly in thoughtful consideration. “I am afraid that I am not skillful at such things, Miss Lydia.”
“Oh, then you must learn,” cried Lydia, with the authority of nine years and no doubts. “Papa knows tricks.”
“Papa knows everything,” said Elizabeth, smiling with affectionate irony.
“My dear Lizzy,” returned Mr. Bennet, “I know at least when I am being set up, and I perceive that I am to be called upon to entertain the company with sleight-of-hand.”
Mrs. Bennet looked alarmed. “Mr. Bennet! You will not make yourself ridiculous.”
“I have never needed assistance,” he replied.
William, however, after a moment’s thought, during which he glanced about the table with quiet assessment, looked towards Kitty, whose hair had escaped its ribbon and fallen a little untidily about her ear, and said with a seriousness that made the thing infinitely funnier than if he had grinned—
“If I may be permitted, Miss Catherine—” and, as Kitty stared at him, wide-eyed and blushing faintly, he lifted his hand, made one large quiet movement, and produced from behind her ear a small copper coin.