Chapter 7 #4
Mr. Collins, his voice rich with sincere admiration, replied with measured yet heartfelt enthusiasm.
“They are gentlemen of the first distinction, madam. Mr. Bingley possesses an openness and warmth of manner that must render him universally beloved—his liberality, his readiness to be pleased, promise the greatest felicity to any society. As for Mr. Darcy—though his reserve may at first appear formidable, I am persuaded it conceals a depth of character and true gentility. Beneath that exterior of gravity lies discernment, steadiness, and a generosity of spirit that reveal themselves to those who observe with patience. A little indifference—nay, even a shadow of it—may serve to draw forth his true colors, for such gentlemen are often most eloquent when least solicited.”
Elizabeth regarded him with a spark of mischief in her fine eyes, though her tone remained composed.
“Patience and indifference, Cousin? You prescribe a curious remedy for reserve.”
Mr. Collins bowed faintly, yet persisted with earnest conviction.
“I speak only from attentive observation, dear cousin. A lively mind such as yours may find, in time, that gravity is but the guardian of deeper worth.”
Lydia, who had been listening with restless animation, could no longer contain herself.
“But you probably didn’t find out what happened to Miss Lucas, Cousin William!
” she burst out with a triumphant laugh.
“Only think. You know she might have been engaged to that dull old Mr. Harrington, but Jane and Lizzy with their clever talk quite sent him out packing from Lucas Lodge. He has withdrawn altogether now!”
Kitty giggled in agreement, while Jane nodded modestly and Elizabeth’s lips curved in quiet amusement.
Mrs. Bennet looked momentarily severe.
“Lydia! Such forwardness—but I confess I am not sorry for it. Charlotte is a good girl, but seven-and-twenty is rather late for such a match.”
Mr. Collins, whose attention had been instantly arrested by Lydia’s exclamation, felt a sudden warmth suffuse his countenance—thrilled by the intelligence, and conscious of a deep, grateful indebtedness to his fair cousins.
“Mr. Bennet was so kind as to tell me that Miss Lucas is disengaged,” he murmured, his voice soft with hopeful wonder. “I had not hoped for such change… Pray, how does she bear the disappointment? And Sir William—is he much cast down?”
Elizabeth regarded him with gentle raillery.
“Charlotte bears it with her usual good sense and composure, Cousin. She is still at Lucas Lodge, I believe—perhaps reflecting upon the advantages of independence.”
Mr. Collins bowed his head, his heart too full for immediate reply, the evening’s prospects—and those of tomorrow—appearing suddenly brighter than he had dared to hope.
The drawing-room, warmed by firelight and the affectionate bustle of family, settled into a contented hum of speculation and anticipation, the promise of the morrow hanging pleasantly in the air.
***
The fire in the small parlour of the Red Lion had burned low, casting a soft, flickering light upon the two gentlemen as they lingered over the remains of a plain but satisfying supper, the decanter of port between them half-emptied in companionable silence.
Mr. Bingley, whose natural spirits had been buoyed by the day’s successes, leaned back in his chair with a contented sigh, his countenance reflecting the easy satisfaction of one who saw only bright prospects ahead.
“I declare, Darcy,” he began at length, his voice warm with anticipation, “that I have seldom felt so decided upon any undertaking as I do upon Netherfield. The house, the grounds, the situation—all promise such scope for improvement. I already picture a new conservatory upon the south side, perhaps an extension to the library shelves, and the park walks laid out anew. A man might make it a place truly his own, and one to be proud of in every particular.”
Mr. Darcy, who had been gazing thoughtfully into the dying embers, inclined his head with that grave composure which characterized him, though a faint curve touched his lips at his friend’s enthusiasm.
“The estate possesses merit, certainly, Bingley,” he replied after a moment’s reflection, his tone measured yet not without indulgence. “Your liberality will suit it well, my friend, and the neighborhood appears orderly enough to support such plans without undue interference.”
Mr. Bingley’s eyes brightened further, as though the very mention of the neighborhood stirred fresh visions.
“And the society!” he continued, leaning forward with renewed animation.
“From what little we have glimpsed—and from Mr. Collins’s earnest, if somewhat partial, descriptions—it promises to be most agreeable.
Respectable families, accomplished young ladies…
a man might do far worse than establish himself among such neighbors.
One hears continually of the advantages of country life for forming lasting connexions. ”
He paused, a knowing smile playing upon his features, as if the thought of matrimony had presented itself not as a duty but as a pleasant possibility.
Mr. Darcy’s expression grew rather more guarded; he set down his glass with deliberate care, his mind evidently turning upon the conversation they had endured in the carriage on the journey from Kent—Mr. Collins’s bold yet perceptive observations upon duty, upon Anne, upon the possibility of freedom through another’s choice.
“You speak already of more permanent establishments, Bingley,” he observed quietly, after a pause that betrayed the weight of his reflections.
“Yet marriage is a serious undertaking—not to be entered upon lightly, nor hurried by the convenience of a new neighborhood or the schemes of relations, however well-intentioned.”
Mr. Bingley regarded his friend with mild surprise, though affection tempered any reproach.
“You are unusually grave upon the subject tonight, Darcy. Yet our good Mr. Collins seemed to think otherwise—hinting, if I understood him rightly, that even the most reserved dispositions might be drawn forth by judicious encouragement, and that certain long-held plans might be reconsidered for the happiness of others.”
Mr. Darcy’s gaze returned to the fire, his brow contracting faintly as he weighed the parson’s words anew.
The idea that his continued unattached state held Anne in a kind of gentle captivity—that by stepping aside, by fulfilling his own duty to Pemberley through a suitable alliance elsewhere, he might release her to a life more congenial to her delicate constitution—had lingered with him throughout the day.
Pemberley, after all, required an heir; he was not merely the guardian of his sister Georgiana’s future, but steward of an ancient line, with responsibilities that extended beyond personal inclination or familial pressure.
To postpone indefinitely was to neglect those duties, yet to yield to his aunt’s inflexible design seemed equally untenable.
“Collins spoke with more perception than I at first credited,” he admitted at length, his voice low and reflective.
“His observations upon… family matters were not without foundation. To free Anne from expectations she may not share—to allow her the quiet happiness she might find elsewhere—would be an act of true affection. Yet I cannot contemplate such a step merely to accommodate another’s ambition, nor to escape my aunt’s schemes. ”
Mr. Bingley leaned forward, his expression one of affectionate concern mingled with gentle raillery.
“Come, Darcy—you carry too heavy a burden upon your shoulders. Pemberley will endure, and an heir will come in due course. But consider: a suitable alliance need not be a sacrifice. Hertfordshire may yet present opportunities that align duty with… inclination.”
Mr. Bingley paused a moment, as though struck by a fresh thought, and continued with renewed animation.
“And speaking of Hertfordshire—I am resolved, if the morning proves fine, to walk in Meryton directly after breakfast. A new master ought to become acquainted with the town nearest his estate; there will be shops to visit, tradesmen to greet, and perhaps some small intelligence to gather upon the neighborhood. Will you accompany me, Darcy? The exercise would do us both good before the evening’s engagements. ”
Mr. Darcy considered the proposal for a moment, his reserve yielding to the practical sense of it; the town lay close, the day promised fair, and a brief survey might indeed prove useful.
“I shall join you,” he replied at length, with quiet decision. “It will serve to acquaint us further with the place we are to call, for a time at least, your home.”
Mr. Bingley’s satisfaction was immediate and unguarded.
“Capital! Then we shall set forth together.”
Mr. Darcy permitted himself the faintest, wry smile, though his thoughts remained guarded.
“Time may reveal what is possible,” he replied after another pause, as though turning the matter over with careful deliberation. “For now, the morrow’s engagements suffice.”
Mr. Bingley, sensing his friend’s reluctance to pursue the subject further, allowed the conversation to drift toward lighter prospects—the anticipated supper at Longbourn, the merits of the neighborhood—yet in the quiet that followed, each gentleman retired to his chamber with reflections of his own: Mr. Bingley dreaming of renovations and agreeable society, Mr. Darcy pondering the delicate balance between duty, affection, and the unforeseen possibilities that Hertfordshire might yet unfold.
***
The evening had drawn on, and the drawing-room at Longbourn was cheerful with firelight and candles as the family awaited their guests.
Mrs. Bennet, seated upon the sofa in a state of eager triumph, smoothed her gown repeatedly and glanced often toward the window, while her daughters—arranged about the room with varying degrees of composure—betrayed their anticipation in whispers and small adjustments to ribbon or curl.