Chapter 5
Elizabeth Bennet
Even as the bright leaves and lingering sunshine of October gradually shifted into the bare branches and dull skies of November, Mr Bennet did not return to Longbourn, or even send so much as a letter.
In her lower moods, Elizabeth felt she had almost ceased to expect it.
Surely she had always been in a state of uncertainty and worry over her father, and always would be.
Jane, though no less concerned for their father, had at least the distraction of Mr Bingley’s pleasant manners and obvious admiration of her.
Mary had decided that duty to her father meant not judging his actions, a philosophy she extended even to Mr Bennet’s unexplained absence.
Their younger sisters seemed to think of it as little as anyone well could think of the disappearance of a parent, and Mrs Bennet, though more nervous than ever, all but refused to speak of it.
But even when Mr Bennet’s absence was not spoken of, it must be felt. Between the weather and that lingering care, the whole family was dreadfully dull.
On that thought, Elizabeth looked out the window and sighed.
Within and without, everything was grey and dreary.
The morning had advanced well beyond its usual hour before the household gathered in the drawing room, and even then it did not assemble with any unity.
Each member of the family pursued a separate occupation, with varying degrees of attention.
Her mother sat near the window with her work, though she applied herself to it only at intervals. From time to time she paused, her hands resting idly in her lap as she gazed toward the lane with an expression that shifted between expectation and impatience.
Jane, seated nearby, had taken up her needlework and gave it her steady attention. Her demeanour was as composed as ever, yet not at ease. There was a quiet watchfulness in her expression, as if she listened for something beyond the room itself.
Elizabeth had placed herself near the small writing table, a book open before her, though she had not turned a page for some time. Her attention drifted, and more than once she found herself reading the same line without comprehension before setting the book aside.
Mary seemed determined to make better use of her time than the rest of the family.
She had stationed herself at the pianoforte, where she played with careful precision, her attention fixed upon the notes before her.
Though her performance had few variations, it continued with unwavering seriousness.
Alone among the family, Lydia and Kitty had something of liveliness.
Having ensconced themselves on the far end of the room, their voices rose and fell with no regard for the rest of them, and what began as a private exchange soon carried across the room in fragments of speculation and laughter.
But even their spirits were not light, and their voices soon became fractious and quarrelsome.
Elizabeth was at the point of intervening in their argument, or at least insisting that they carry it out more quietly, when Hill appeared at the door. Elizabeth looked at her in surprise, for even a glance showed her manner to be both hurried and rather troubled.
“There is a visitor, ma’am,” she announced, sounding strangely uncertain.
Mrs Bennet looked up at once. “A visitor?”
Jane set aside her work, and Elizabeth rose from her seat, exchanging a brief glance with her sister.
“Who is it, Hill?” Mrs Bennet asked.
But Hill had no opportunity to answer. Before she could speak, the door opened wider, and a gentleman entered the room without waiting to be led in.
He advanced several steps at once, bowing as he came.
His expression was composed into what appeared to be an attempt at respectful humility, but Elizabeth noticed with astonishment that he seemed to be looking around the room with appraisal, as though it belonged to him.
“Madam, I beg you will excuse the liberty I take in presenting myself without the formality of prior notice,” he began.
“I should have waited upon you sooner, but circumstances of a particular nature rendered delay unavoidable, until I could not reconcile it with my sense of duty to remain absent any longer.”
At such a statement, there was nothing to be done but stare. Elizabeth could not have begun to think of anything sensible to say in response to so astonishing a declaration.
Untroubled by any such concerns, the gentleman continued without pause. “I trust I do not intrude at an inconvenient moment. My intention, I assure you, is entirely conciliatory, and I hope, in the course of my visit, to make such amends as may be within my power.”
Mrs Bennet rose slowly from her seat. “Sir,” she began, though no immediate continuation suggested itself, and she fell silent.
Elizabeth cleared her throat. “Excuse me, sir. I am afraid we have not had the pleasure of making your acquaintance. You are…?”
“Ah!” he cried out in embarrassment and astonishment. “Naturally you would not — very well, allow me to remedy the omission at once.” With that, the gentleman bowed again. “Since there is no one present of whom I might beg an introduction, permit me to introduce myself. I am Mr Herbert Collins.”
“You are Mr Collins?” Mrs Bennet repeated faintly. “Our cousin who stands next in the entail?”
“The same, madam,” he replied, with obvious self-satisfaction. “Your humble servant, and most sincerely desirous of being considered so.”
Mr Collins inclined his head again, as if the sentiment required emphasis.
“I have long been aware of the connection that exists between us,” he continued, “and when I was made acquainted with the present circumstances of your respected family, I felt it incumbent upon me to act without delay. The distance from my parish in Kent is not inconsiderable, yet I considered no inconvenience too great when weighed against the claims of duty and propriety.”
Mrs Bennet sank back into her seat, seeming almost overcome by her astonishment. “Oh, is that so,” she murmured.
Seeing that her mother was in no shape to untangle the confusion in which they found themselves, Elizabeth turned to their curious visitor.
“Pardon us for our astonishment, Mr Collins,” she said.
“Sadly, you find us entirely unprepared. I am afraid we did not receive a letter informing us of your intention to visit. It must have been lost in the post.”
“I sent no letter, Cousin,” Mr Collins replied promptly. “I judged that the urgency of the situation rendered such formalities unnecessary, and that a personal visit would best express the sincerity of my intentions.”
Elizabeth lowered her gaze for a moment, not from embarrassment, but to conceal the sudden impulse to smile. There was something almost irresistibly comic in his air, a mixture of solemness and self-importance that appeared entirely unconscious.
“Mama, perhaps you ought to introduce us to Mr Collins,” Jane suggested softly.
The attempt to regularise the situation seemed to rally Mrs Bennet.
“Why, yes, Jane, you are quite right. Mr Collins, this is my eldest daughter, Jane, and here you see the next oldest, Elizabeth. Mary is at the piano there, and to the far end of the room you see Catherine — but you may call her Kitty, for we all do — and Lydia.”
“And I am the youngest of all!” Lydia declared proudly.
Mr Collins made another bow. Then, seeming to have some wish to be gallant, he gave them all a rather oily smile.
“Ah, such beautiful daughters, ma’am,” he told Mrs Bennet.
“I am sure they are a credit to you, and I may only hope that their moral faculties are as lovely as their persons. Though that, perhaps, is too much to be expected.”
At this, Elizabeth was forced to stifle a laugh, for Mr Collins certainly had not intended his “compliment” to be more in the nature of a veiled insult.
Having secured the attention of the room, Mr Collins appeared determined to keep it.
“I must beg leave, at the earliest opportunity, to address a matter which I am sensible cannot be agreeable,” he said pompously.
“The unfortunate nature of the entail which governs the future possession of this estate has long been a source of regret to me, and I should consider myself most deficient in proper feeling were I not to acknowledge it.”
Mrs Bennet’s expression tightened. “I am very sorry for it, I am sure,” she said stiffly.
Mr Collins bowed again. “Your sentiments are quite understandable, madam. It is my earnest wish that, by every means within my power, I may lessen the hardship of a circumstance which I could not prevent.”
He paused, as if to allow the weight of his declaration to be fully appreciated.
Elizabeth regarded him with increasing interest. Whatever his intentions, they were expressed with a seriousness that bordered upon ceremony, and she found herself uncertain whether to be amused or concerned.
And could Mr Collins really mean to suggest that if he could, he would have prevented the entail that would one day make him the owner of Longbourn?
Mr Collins continued, undeterred. “I have, at present, the honour of holding a living in Kent, bestowed upon me through the distinguished patronage of the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, whose condescension and benevolence I can never sufficiently acknowledge.”
At this, he inclined his head once more, as if the mere mention of the name demanded it. He remained standing as he spoke, as if the importance of his subject did not permit him to be at ease.
“The matter of the entail is a situation, madam,” he continued, “which I have never regarded without a proper degree of concern. The laws which govern such matters are, of course, beyond the influence of private individuals, and it would be presumption in me to question them. Still, where a hardship is clearly felt, it becomes the duty of all concerned to act with consideration.”