Chapter 7 #3
“Decided, yes—until the gentleman proved less so. Sir William is disappointed, naturally, but I fancy he may now be brought to consider that a clergyman of steady character and respectable patronage—established at Hunsford, no less—might offer advantages not to be despised. A gentleman who breaks his word, after all, can scarcely be accounted preferable to one who keeps his.”
Mr. Collins’s countenance underwent a transformation so marked that Mr. Bennet was hard pressed not to smile outright. The parson’s eyes shone with sudden, radiant possibility; his step, already light, now seemed almost to dance upon the gravel.
“Indeed… indeed, Cousin Bennet,” he murmured, his rich baritone voice trembling with suppressed emotion. “Such intelligence is… most providential.”
And then, as though his heart could no longer contain its joy in silence, a low, resonant melody rose from him—the familiar strains of a favorite psalm, sung softly yet with heartfelt conviction:
“The Lord’s my shepherd, I shall not want…
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures…”
The notes carried clear and steady upon the breeze, warm and full, filling the quiet country road with unexpected music.
Mr. Bennet glanced sideways at his companion, one brow arching in mild astonishment that quickly softened into wry indulgence.
He had never heard Mr. Collins give voice to song upon an open path—nor imagined the usually solemn parson capable of so unguarded an expression of felicity.
Yet there it was: a baritone psalm of thanksgiving drifting between the empty fields, accompanied only by the rustle of leaves and the distant lowing of cattle.
Mr. Bennet permitted himself the faintest smile—half amusement, half private entertainment—and continued walking in companionable quiet, reflecting inwardly that Hertfordshire, with its gentle influences and unexpected tidings, appeared already to work remarkable wonders upon even the most earnest of dispositions.
And so they proceeded toward Longbourn, the parson’s quiet baritone rising like a private benediction upon the day’s happiest conclusions.
***
Mr. Bennet and Mr. Collins approached Longbourn as the last light of afternoon softened into evening, the familiar outline of the house welcoming against the fading sky.
The gravel crunched beneath their feet, and the parson’s step—though now more measured than during their earlier walk—retained a buoyancy that Mr. Bennet noted with private amusement.
The door opened before they had quite reached it, and Mrs. Bennet appeared upon the threshold, her countenance alight with impatient curiosity.
Behind her, in the hall, hovered the five Miss Bennets—Jane with gentle composure, Elizabeth with lively interest, Mary with solemn attention, and Kitty and Lydia scarcely able to contain their restlessness, their earlier vigil at the upper windows having afforded them a distant but tantalizing view of the gentlemen’s coming along the road.
“Well!” cried Mrs. Bennet, scarcely waiting for the gentlemen to cross the threshold.
“Here you are at last! I have been in agonies—positively in agonies! Hill and I have watched the road for nearly the two hours past. And the girls—why, they have seen everything from the dressing-room window! Such a fine carriage, and two gentlemen besides Mr. Collins—pray, Mr. Bennet, do not keep us in suspense. What has passed? Is Netherfield let?”
Mr. Bennet removed his hat with deliberate calm, handing it to Hill, who hovered nearby with deferential readiness.
“My dear,” he replied, with his customary dry amusement, “you will be pleased to learn that I bring rather good news, but you will allow us first to rest for a few moments in the parlor. I should be much obliged for some tea, Mrs. Hill.”
“There are more good news girls! Make way to your father and Cousin William. Let us wait in the parlor! Rather good? What did you mean by ‘rather’, Mr. Bennet?” asked his wife, casting a searching glance at Mr. Collins, hoping that he might reveal some small detail from which to draw a clue.
Meanwhile the daughters regrouped in the drawing-room at Longbourn, waiting impatiently in an atmosphere of peculiar warmth and anticipation.
The fire burned cheerfully in the grate, casting a flattering glow upon the worn but comfortable chairs, and the tea-table stood already laid with Mrs. Bennet’s most cherished china.
The ladies of the house had assembled in a state of scarcely suppressed excitement—Mrs. Bennet presiding at the urn with fluttering animation, Jane seated beside her with gentle composure, Elizabeth upon the sofa with that lively intelligence which rendered her countenance particularly expressive, Mary in a corner with a volume of sermons open upon her knee (though her attention was plainly elsewhere), and Kitty and Lydia perched together at the window, whence they had enjoyed an uninterrupted, if distant, view of the gentlemen’s arrival and departure.
The entrance of Mr. Bennet and Mr. Collins was greeted with an immediate rise in the general hum of expectation. Mrs. Bennet, who had been upon the point of voicing her impatience for the tenth time, turned with eager solicitude.
“Do sit down, Mr. Bennet, and relax! And you, Mr. Collins—we have been in the most dreadful suspense. Pray, do not keep us waiting another instant. Is Netherfield let? And to whom?”
Mr. Bennet seated himself in his favorite chair before replying, his eyes twinkling with that dry amusement which his family knew so well.
“My dear Mrs. Bennet, you may compose yourself. Netherfield is indeed let—at last, as you wished.”
Mrs. Bennet clasped her hands in an ecstasy of delight, her voice rising in pitch.
“Let! Oh, my dear Mr. Bennet—let to which gentleman? The shorter one, I am certain—the one who smiled so agreeably as he descended from the carriage?”
Mr. Collins, bowing with earnest gratification at being thus appealed to, hastened to confirm the intelligence.
“Precisely so, madam. Mr. Charles Bingley—a gentleman of the most liberal and amiable disposition—has this day signed the necessary papers. Possession may be taken within a fortnight.”
A chorus of exclamations followed—Mrs. Bennet’s the most rapturous, Lydia’s the most exuberant, Kitty’s echoing her sister’s delight with giggles scarcely suppressed.
Jane colored faintly with quiet pleasure, while Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled with lively curiosity.
Even Mary looked up from her volume with solemn interest.
“And the other gentleman?” inquired Mrs. Bennet, scarcely pausing for breath. “The tall, grave one—Mr. Darcy, I think? He is to reside there also?”
Mr. Bennet inclined his head.
“As Mr. Bingley’s particular friend, he may stay for a time; but I do not believe they intend to occupy Netherfield together as joint tenants.”
Mrs. Bennet’s satisfaction knew no bounds; she turned to her daughters with triumphant animation.
“Together! Only think, girls—two such gentlemen in the neighborhood! And one with five thousand a year, if your letters spoke true, Mr. Collins. We must have the very best supper tomorrow—Hill has been practicing that cold roast beef with horseradish sauce these past evenings, determined to perfect the receipt you so kindly provided. She declares the third attempt quite superior.”
Hill, entering at that moment with a fresh supply of cakes, colored modestly.
“I hope it may please, ma’am.”
Jane smiled gently. “It is very thoughtful of you, Cousin, to share the receipt.”
Kitty leaned forward eagerly. “But tell us more of Rosings, Cousin William! Your letters described it so grandly, but one longs to hear it again. Does Lady Catherine truly advise upon everything—from sermons to chimneys?”
Lydia bounced upon the sofa. “And Miss de Bourgh—does she wear feathers and diamonds every day? And drive about in a phaeton with ponies?”
Mary closed her volume with grave approval. “I should particularly wish to know of the parish duties at Hunsford. Are the poor properly attended to in their moral as well as material wants?”
Elizabeth, regarding Mr. Collins with affectionate raillery, added her voice to the chorus.
“You have favored us with descriptions before, Cousin, but indulge us once more. We have no such splendor in Hertfordshire to compare.”
Mr. Collins, gratified beyond measure by the interest of his fair cousins—each question seeming to him a mark of their excellent understanding and familial affection—bowed with earnest warmth.
“Rosings, my dear cousins, is a seat of true magnificence, governed with a wisdom that commands universal admiration. Lady Catherine’s condescension extends to every particular; her judgment upon parish affairs, the ordering of the grounds, even the arrangement of apartments, is infallible.
Miss de Bourgh, though delicate in constitution, possesses a sweetness of disposition that renders her society most agreeable when health permits.
The parish of Hunsford, under her ladyship’s patronage, enjoys every advantage of orderly charity and moral instruction.
Before my departure, her ladyship agreed to the organization of a poor-relief distribution, twice weekly in winter, for widows, the aged, and the infirm. ”
Mrs. Bennet nodded vigorously, though her thoughts had already returned to more immediate concerns.
“And the gentlemen themselves—pray, what manner of men are they? You have been much in their company today, Mr. Bennet.”
Her husband hesitated for a moment then supplied the first impressions with his customary dryness.
“Mr. Bingley is all affability and good humor—precisely the sort of young man to please wherever he goes. Mr. Darcy is more reserved, but his manners are correct, and his understanding, I believe, superior.”
Mrs. Bennet turned eagerly to Mr. Collins.
“And you, Cousin—you must give us particulars. Are they indeed as eligible as they appeared from the windows?”