Mr. Collins received this with evident gratification. “I have always thought it my duty,” he said, “to show the utmost respect and gratitude toward those of superior rank. It is a principle which, I am persuaded, must recommend a man in every respectable circle.”
“Quite so, Mr. Collins,” Elizabeth replied with a slight smile, her heart racing at the thought of his overinflated ego.
The evening passed in this manner, with Mr. Collins moving through conversation with unflagging perseverance, ever attentive to those whose approval he most valued.
***
At last, the following day arrived, and the moment of departure was upon them. The Bennet family gathered in the courtyard of Longbourn, the sun casting dappled shadows across the brick façade. The carriage stood ready, its horses tossing their heads impatiently while servants busily secured trunks and last-minute parcels.
“Goodness, I do hope we have not forgotten anything!” Mrs. Bennet fretted, her hands fluttering anxiously. “Lizzy, Jane, are you quite certain you packed everything? Your best dresses, your bonnets, your shoes?”
“Rest assured, Mama,” Elizabeth said, with a hint of amusement, “we have taken great care to ensure that we shall be properly attired for our stay in Hunsford.”
Mr. Collins, having entered the carriage first, attempted to appear composed, but his uneasiness betrayed him. “Iseverything in order?” he asked, looking about as though some calamity might yet present itself.
“Quite so, Cousin,” Mr. Bennet assured him with a rueful smile. “All is as it should be. I would not have you distress yourself before the journey has even begun.”
“Thank you, dear sir,” Mr. Collins replied, his face a picture of earnestness. “It is my greatest wish to make a favourable impression upon the inhabitants of Hunsford, and particularly upon the esteemed Lady Catherine, whose notice I must ever consider the highest distinction. I trust I shall not disappoint her expectations.”
As the carriage began to roll away from Longbourn, Elizabeth could not help but feel a mixture of excitement and quiet uncertainty. “Papa,” Elizabeth said, turning toward him, “do you think Mr. Wickham will prove to be all that we have been led to suppose?”
Cousin Collins regarded her with a sidelong glance, in which a degree of reservation was plainly expressed.
“Time will determine it, my dear,” Mr. Bennet said, settling himself comfortably. “You will have sufficient opportunity to form your own judgement. Only keep your wits about you, and do not suffer Mr. Collins’s enthusiasm to guide your conclusions.”
With the road stretching steadily before them, and Hunsford drawing them onward, the party quitted Longbourn in a state of expectation—each with their own view of what was to come, and none yet prepared for the consequences that awaited them.
CHAPTER3
The road into Hunsford was narrower and quieter than any Elizabeth had lately traveled, and though the country through which they passed possessed none of the varied liveliness of Hertfordshire, it had a settled softness of its own that gradually recommended itself to the eye. The hedgerows were close and green, the fields well kept, and the village itself, when at last it came into view, appeared with that air of modest order which speaks less of grandeur than of long submission to habit, propriety, and the watchful influence of a superior house.
The parsonage, when Mr. Collins pointed it out with a mixture of eagerness and constraint, stood at no great distance, modest in size and plain in aspect, yet not without a certain rural prettiness. Its situation, however, did not long detain them; for, as they had not been expected, and as Mr. Collins, despite all his confidence, did not think it proper to present himself in company either at the parsonage or at Rosings without some previous notice of his arrival, it was thought advisable that they should first secure accommodation at a nearby inn, which he remembered from his earlier visit to the neighbourhood, when he had first been received at Rosings, and which lay little more than a mile from Rosings Park.
“I remember it perfectly,” Mr. Collins declared, leaning a little forward as the carriage turned into the inn-yard. “A decent house, very decently conducted. The people are respectful, and, what is of still greater consequence, properly sensible of the honour done them by receiving travellers who may, at any moment, be connected with Rosings in a more particular manner.”
Mr. Bennet, who had listened to this recollection without interruption, now looked out of the carriage window and remarked, “Then we are fortunate indeed, for I should be sorry to lodge where our consequence might be imperfectly understood.”
Elizabeth bit her lip to keep from smiling, while Mr. Collins, uncertain for a moment whether the observation were wholly serious, elected to treat it as such, and responded “By all means, cousin—most certainly so,” with a solemnity proportioned to the dignity of the subject.
Upon entering the inn, they found it clean, quiet, and sufficiently respectable to satisfy even Mr. Collins’s present anxiety. Their luggage was carried up; a private parlour was offered; and, after some discussion respecting the propriety of dining at once or waiting until they had refreshed themselves, it was settled that some cold provisions and soup should be brought without delay. Mr. Collins, however, had business more urgent than hunger. He requested writing materials before he requested anything else.
“It would be highly improper,” he insisted, “to remain within so short a distance of Rosings without immediately apprising Lady Catherine de Bourgh of my arrival. I shall write at once, and in terms I trust, at once respectful, clear, and expressive of my unchanged gratitude. Her ladyship cannot but approve such attention.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Mr. Bennet. “The delay of an hour might shake her whole establishment.”
Mr. Collins sat down at a side table with ink, paper, and an importance equal to either, while Mr. Bennet and Elizabeth took their places nearer the window of the dining room, from which they could see a portion of the road and the lower sweepof grounds beyond the village. It was while waiting there, that Elizabeth first observed the lady seated alone at a table near the fire.
She was no longer in the first bloom of youth, though far from advanced in years. Her dress was good and her manner well-bred, yet there was something in her whole appearance which suggested recent disturbance rather than habitual melancholy. She was not weeping, nor making any display of distress; but the lady sat with the air of one who had been forced too suddenly out of a settled course of life and had not yet learned how to compose herself to the interruption. Her soup remained almost untouched. Twice she lifted her spoon, and twice laid it down again.
Elizabeth watched her a little longer than she was aware of doing, until Mr. Bennet, who observed his daughter more closely than she knew, remarked quietly, “You are forming a history for that poor lady already, Lizzy.”
“I am only wondering whether she has one,” Elizabeth replied, lowering her voice. “She seems unhappy.”
“So do half the people who travel,” Mr. Bennet said. “And a quarter of those who stay at home.”
“But not all have that look,” Elizabeth countered. “There is something more than common vexation in her face.”
Mr. Bennet glanced once toward the stranger and then back at Elizabeth. “Take care,” he cautioned. “Compassion is an excellent quality, but it has a way of introducing us to more history than we bargain for.”
