“That has not always proved a misfortune,” she returned; and, after another moment’s hesitation, in which her native delicacycontended with her curiosity and kindness, she rose and crossed the room.
The lady looked up as Elizabeth approached, and though surprise was visible in her countenance, it was not joined by displeasure.
“I beg your pardon,” Elizabeth said, with that graceful frankness which often disarmed where greater ceremony might have failed, “if I am guilty of intrusion. I only feared, from your appearing unwell or uneasy, that you might be in want of some assistance.”
The lady’s expression softened at once. “You are very obliging,” she replied. “I am not ill—only somewhat… discomposed.”
“Then I hope the cause may not be lasting,” Elizabeth said. “My father is here with me, and if either of us could be of use—”
At that moment, Mr. Bennet, perceiving that retreat would now be more awkward than approach, came slowly forward and made his bow. Elizabeth then added, “Allow me to present my father, Mr. Bennet. I am Elizabeth Bennet.”
The stranger returned his civility and, after the slightest pause, said, “Mrs. Jenkinson.”
The name conveyed nothing to Elizabeth; but Mr. Collins, who had by now sealed his letter and was advancing across the room with the self-satisfaction of a man who had discharged a delicate duty, no sooner heard it than he started visibly.
“Mrs. Jenkinson!” Mr. Collins exclaimed. “Can it be possible? Mrs. Jenkinson of Rosings?”
She turned toward him with equal surprise. “Mr. Collins.”
“My dear madam,” Mr. Collins hurried forward, “this is indeed astonishing. I had not the smallest expectation of meeting you here. I trust Miss de Bourgh is well? I trust Lady Catherine is well? I trust all at Rosings continues exactly as it ought?”
Something in the rapidity of these inquiries, or perhaps in the names themselves, seemed to touch a tender point; for Mrs. Jenkinson’s composure wavered, and the expression of contained uneasiness which Elizabeth had first noticed returned more strongly than before.
“I thank you, sir,” the sad lady said. “Miss de Bourgh is in health as usual. Lady Catherine—” She stopped. “Rosings is much altered.”
Mr. Collins, though not remarkable for discernment where his own hopes were concerned, was not insensible to the gravity of her tone. “Altered?” he repeated. “In what respect?”
Mrs. Jenkinson glanced uncertainly at Mr. Bennet and Elizabeth, as if doubtful whether she ought to continue before strangers; but distress had already disposed her to confidence, and the kindness with which Elizabeth regarded her seemed to decide the matter.
“Perhaps it is time to declare I have lately quitted Rosings,” Mrs. Jenkinson explained calmly.
“Quitted it!” Mr. Collins exclaimed. “You? Miss de Bourgh’s companion?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Jenkinson hesitated before saying more.
Mr. Bennet now spoke for the first time since his introduction. “I hope not under disagreeable circumstances, madam.”
Mrs. Jenkinson gave a faint smile, the very faintness of which made it more affecting than tears. “Under circumstances which I do not yet fully understand myself, sir.”
Elizabeth took the chair opposite her without waiting for invitation, though with so natural and respectful an air that none could call it bold. “You were dismissed, madam?” she asked gently.
“Not in so many words.” Mrs. Jenkinson sighed lightly. “Yet I was given to understand that my attendance was no longer required.”
Mr. Collins coloured. “This is most extraordinary—most painful—most wholly unlike anything one should expect under Lady Catherine’s roof.”
“Extraordinary, certainly,” Mr. Bennet observed. “Though households, like govern-ments, are not always most intelligible to those who live nearest them.”
Mrs. Jenkinson looked at him with some gratitude, as if relieved to be addressed without excessive exclamation. “I had been with Miss de Bourgh a considerable time,” she continued. “Long enough, at least, to flatter myself that, if a change were ever intended, I should not have been taken entirely by surprise. Yet within these last days every arrangement has seemed liable to alteration.”
“Since the new vicar came?” Elizabeth asked.
Mrs. Jenkinson’s eyes rose quickly to her face. “You know, then, that there is a new vicar?”
“We know only that there is expected to be one shortly,” Mr. Bennet said, “and that his name is probably Mr. Wickham.”
At this, even Mr. Collins could not preserve the studied composure he had worn since entering the inn. “Mr. George Wickham,” he said, with measured effort. “A gentleman whose communication to me has, I confess, occasioned no small perplexity.”
Mrs. Jenkinson pressed her lips together. “He has occasioned no small perplexity at Rosings also.”
