Chapter 7 #7
Mr. Bingley’s countenance reflected open delight, his eyes fixed upon Jane with undisguised admiration; Mr. Darcy, however, sat in silent astonishment—his reserve momentarily shaken by the parson’s accomplished delivery, so far removed from the obsequious clergyman he had half-expected.
A quick, conspiratorial glance passed between the two friends, Bingley’s brows raised in amused surprise, Darcy’s expression one of baffled reappraisal.
When the hymn concluded to polite applause—Mrs. Bennet’s the most enthusiastic—Elizabeth rose with lively grace, declaring that Mary must favor them with a song, as her voice was particularly suited to the Scotch air lately in fashion.
Mary, though solemn, complied with grave satisfaction, taking her place while Elizabeth accompanied upon the instrument. The air was rendered with precision and feeling—Mary’s voice clear if somewhat pedantic, Elizabeth’s touch upon the keys light and expressive.
Mr. Bingley applauded with genuine warmth, his gaze returning often to Jane with quiet enchantment; Mr. Darcy, however, remained in thoughtful silence, his earlier bafflement deepened by the unexpected display of talent and harmony within so unpretending a family—reflections that lingered long after the final note had faded.
The evening drew toward its close with that gentle reluctance which marks a gathering truly enjoyed.
Mrs. Bennet, radiant with the success of her table and her daughters’ accomplishments, pressed for one more song, but Mr. Bennet, with a glance at the clock and a faint smile of indulgence, declared the hour advanced and the guests entitled to their rest after a long day.
The gentlemen—Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy—rose with due expressions of gratitude—Mr. Bingley warm and sincere, Mr. Darcy grave yet courteous—while Mr. Collins, as one of the family circle, remained seated with earnest pleasure, his countenance glowing with the happiness of having contributed to so agreeable an evening.
Farewells were exchanged at the door, the carriage called round, and the visitors departed beneath a clear, starlit sky, each carrying away reflections suited to his particular temperament: Mr. Bingley with dreams of future evenings in similar company, Mr. Darcy with a mind more occupied than he cared to admit by the unexpected graces of a Hertfordshire family.
Within Longbourn, the family lingered a moment in satisfied review—Mrs. Bennet in raptures over the conquests achieved, declaring with fervent animation that Providence itself had sent Mr. Collins to their household, for who else could have brought two such distinguished gentlemen to their table, and with such happy consequences in prospect; his devotion to the Bennet family, she insisted, was a blessing beyond anything she had dared to hope, and she trusted he would continue to favor them with his presence and his invaluable connexions.
The girls whispered of handsome strangers and forthcoming assemblies, and Mr. Bennet retired to his library with the quiet conviction that the neighborhood had grown considerably more interesting than he had anticipated.
Thus concluded an evening whose simple pleasures had woven the first threads of connections destined to alter many lives in ways none could yet foresee.
***
The morning following the memorable dinner at Longbourn dawned clear and mild, the sort of autumn day that invited gentle exercise and agreeable reflections.
Mr. Collins, who had passed a night of uncommon restlessness—his mind dwelling with alternating hope and trepidation upon the intelligence lately received—rose early, his thoughts fixed upon a visit to Lucas Lodge that he could no longer defer.
At the breakfast-table, amid the usual bustle of the Bennet household—Mrs. Bennet still in raptures over the previous evening’s successes, Lydia and Kitty whispering of officers and assemblies, and Mary absorbed in a volume of sermons—he addressed himself to Elizabeth with that earnest deference which characterized his manner toward his fair cousins.
“My dear Cousin Lizzy,” he began, his voice lowered yet vibrant with feeling, “I find myself desirous of paying my respects at Lucas Lodge this morning. Miss Lucas—your particular friend—has ever shown me great kindness in the past, and I should be most gratified if you would consent to accompany me. The walk is short, the air invigorating, and your company would render the errand infinitely more agreeable.”
Elizabeth, who had observed his heightened spirits with quiet curiosity and no small degree of affectionate amusement, regarded him with a smile that betrayed both comprehension and indulgence.
“I should be happy to walk with you, Cousin,” she replied with lively grace. “Charlotte will be pleased to see us, I am certain—and the exercise will do us both good after last night’s indulgences.”
Mrs. Bennet, catching the exchange, beamed with triumphant animation.
“Very proper, Mr. Collins—very proper indeed! Charlotte is a sensible girl, and Lucas Lodge wants only a little consequence to make it quite the thing.”
Mr. Bennet glanced up from his newspaper with mild irony but offered no comment, merely permitting himself the faintest twitch of a smile as the two set forth.
The distance to Lucas Lodge was indeed short—a pleasant stroll across the lane with a field by its side, the path familiar and the morning air fresh with the scent of dew upon the grass.
Mr. Collins walked with a lightness of step that seemed to betray the agitation of his hopes; his countenance, usually composed in earnest gravity, now shone with an unfeigned radiance that Elizabeth could not but find endearing.
“You appear in particularly good spirits this morning, Cousin,” Lizzy observed after a few moments of companionable silence, her tone affectionate yet teasing. “One might almost suppose you had taken decision of the most gratifying nature.”
Mr. Collins colored deeply, yet his smile did not diminish.
“You are perceptive as ever, dear cousin. The news Mr. Bennet conveyed concerning Miss Lucas has filled me with… with the warmest reflections. To think that a lady of such excellent understanding and steady character might once more be… free to consider… suitable attachments—it is most providential.”
Elizabeth regarded him with gentle raillery, though her heart warmed at his transparent sincerity.
“Providential, indeed. Charlotte bears the disappointment with her usual composure—she has ever valued independence of mind above uncertain prospects.”
Mr. Collins inclined his head with fervent agreement.
“Precisely what renders her so admirable! A lady who unites prudence with kindness, sense with sweetness—such qualities are the foundation of true domestic felicity.”
They continued thus, Elizabeth drawing him out with light questions while privately reflecting upon the contrast between his earnest devotion and the more turbulent emotions she had observed in others the previous evening.
The walk passed swiftly, and soon Lucas Lodge appeared before them—a comfortable, unpretending house of red brick, its windows cheerful and its garden neatly kept.
Sir William received them at the door with his customary effusive hospitality, his round face beaming at the sight of visitors.
“Mr. Collins! Miss Elizabeth! What a pleasure—what an unexpected delight! Come in, come in—Lady Lucas and Charlotte are within.”
Lady Lucas echoed her husband’s welcome with maternal warmth, while Charlotte herself rose from her embroidery with a composed smile that yet betrayed a quiet pleasure at the arrival—particularly, perhaps, of one gentleman whose earnest gaze rested upon her with renewed hope.
The party seated themselves in the familiar parlor, conversation flowing easily upon neighborhood news, the events of the previous evening, and the gratifying intelligence that Netherfield was at last to be occupied by a kind gentleman of fair wealth.
Sir William, ever fond of consequence, dwelt with satisfaction upon the arrival of gentlemen of such distinction, while Charlotte inquired politely after the visitors’ impressions with her usual good sense.
When tea had been served and the general topics somewhat exhausted, Mr. Collins—his countenance betraying a mixture of resolution and nervous deference—requested a private word with Sir William.
The gentleman, flattered by the attention, led the young clergyman at once to his small study, leaving the ladies to their conversation.
There, in the quiet of the book-lined room, Mr. Collins addressed his host with that earnest formality which characterized his most serious moments.
“Sir William,” he began, bowing with profound respect, “I have long esteemed your family with the warmest regard, and your daughter Miss Lucas in particular with an admiration that time and reflection have only served to deepen. The intelligence I lately received—of the happy dissolution of a former attachment—has emboldened me to hope that you might not view with disfavor my aspiration to pay my addresses to her. I am sensible of the honor such a connexion would confer, and I venture to solicit your permission to be considered, with your approbation, as a suitor for Miss Lucas’s hand. ”
Sir William, whose disappointment over the broken match had been keen, regarded the parson with initial surprise that quickly softened into gratification.
A clergyman of steady character, established under the patronage of Lady Catherine de Bourgh herself, represented consequence of a most respectable kind.
He knew all these from the letters the young vicar sent to his Cousin Mr bennet and shared by His wife and Lizzy.