Chapter 6 #3
The days before the ball were such a succession of rain as to prevent me from escaping from the house.
Mr. Bingley braved the weather to visit Jane, but often sent a note explaining that his presence was required to attend to some aspect of the ball—or the decorations—that prevented him from coming to Netherfield.
One such evening just prior to our sitting down to dinner, an express was delivered, addressed to Mr. Collins.
Mr. Collins, who had been in the midst of relating a story about Lady Catherine’s new carriage—‘an elegant phaeton, of a most superior make’—broke off as Hill handed him the letter. He took it with an air of grave importance, glanced at the seal, and went rather pale.
“My dear cousins,” he said, his voice trembling slightly, “if you will excuse me for a moment, I must retire to my room to peruse this communication. It bears the hand of her ladyship herself.”
Mr. Collins returned not ten minutes later, the picture of wounded dignity and distress.
“I regret to inform you,” he said, “that I am required to depart for Hunsford with immediate effect. Lady Catherine de Bourgh, in her impeccable judgement, has written to say that she cannot, in good conscience, permit me to remain at Longbourn for the two additional days I had hoped to spend in your delightful company. She has—” here his voice faltered, “—particular objections to my attendance at the ball to be held at Netherfield.”
There was a moment of stunned silence. Mrs. Bennet looked disconcerted, for we had begun to think of Mr. Collins as the sort of uncle who was always shabbily dressed, not particularly intelligent, and rather like a fussy, pompous lapdog—irritating, excitable, but otherwise of little consequence.
“It is not merely that her ladyship objects to the ball itself,” he continued, “but that she considers it most improper for an unmarried clergyman to attend a social event given by a gentleman whose family is, as she observes, not of the gentry. Mr. Bingley’s fortune, though considerable, is newly acquired, and Lady Catherine holds the strictest principles on such matters. ”
I knew full well the strength of Lady Catherine’s opinions, and felt a pang of annoyance that Mr. Bingley, who was the very soul of amiability and had never, so far as I could see, offended propriety in his life, could be demeaned solely because his father was in trade.
Yet I could not bring myself to feel much sympathy for Mr. Collins, whose superciliousness—though less pronounced than his patroness’s—was constrained neither by sense nor sufficiency of education.
Mr. Collins, for his part, looked utterly crestfallen. He managed a few more stilted sentences—something about duty, and the obligations of his position—but it was clear that his disappointment was profound.
“I had, perhaps, entertained the hope,” he said, lowering his voice and glancing at me with a mixture of longing and embarrassment, “that the ball might provide an occasion for… for a particular declaration. It was my intention, Miss Elizabeth, to address you privately on the evening of the ball, in the hope that you might do me the honour—”
He stopped, embarrassed by the sensitivity of the subject.
My cheeks began to burn. “Mr. Collins, I am very sorry that Lady Catherine’s summons has put you in such a difficult position. But I am sure you will do what you believe to be right.”
He bowed, looking wounded but grateful for my civility.
Mrs. Bennet began to protest, for she felt it was her duty to defend Mr. Collins as a guest in her house.
“Surely, sir, her ladyship cannot wish you to miss the Netherfield ball! Sir William Lucas—magistrate and knighted by his Majesty himself—will attend. Why, it will be the event of the Season. Surely Lady Catherine can have no objection to your enjoying a little society—”
But Mr. Collins was immovable. “Her ladyship’s will is law to me, madam. I must depart on the morning coach. My only regret—” and here he cast another mournful glance at me “—is that I shall not have the opportunity to see my hopes realised before returning to Hunsford.”
I found myself almost sorry for him. His disappointment—real enough, if somewhat theatrical—was palpable, and his hope of leaving Longbourn as an engaged man had been so evident as to be almost touching.
The London coach left Meryton early in the morning, and Mr. Collins was pressed to pass the night at the inn, to ensure a seat inside the cabin.
He took his leave, his portmanteau packed, his expression solemn.
He bowed low to Mrs. Bennet, asked that his good wishes be extended to Mr. Bennet, and gave me one last, lingering look before climbing into the Longbourn carriage to take him to the town.
The house felt a good deal quieter without him.
“Well, he has gone,” said Mama. “Lizzy, could you pour me a glass of the sherry your Uncle Edward brought from Portugal—if Collins were here, no doubt he would have scoffed it all the first night.”
“I will join you. Jane—would you prefer a sherry or Madeira?”
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