By the time the gentlemen were conducted within and had fairly crossed the threshold, the broad entrance hall receiving them with its accustomed coolness and echo, Mrs. Bennet had already advanced to meet her husband, leaving the servants to manage cloaks and baggage as they might.
“My dear Mr. Bennet!” she cried the moment he appeared, advancing with hands outstretched and a flutter of her gown that betrayed her inward commotion, her tone uniting relief with long-pent apprehension. “So you are come back at last! I declare, I have scarcely had a comfortable hour since you left—Portsmouth is such a place, and with business of that sort too. I never knew what to expect next.”
“I assure you, my dear,” returned Mr. Bennet, with that mildness which so often concealed an obstinate purpose, as he handed his hat to the waiting servant with deliberate calm, “my taste for the sea is confined to admiring it at a distance. I have brought you no tar, no tobacco, and—what I know will console you most—no inclination to remain there.”
Mrs. Bennet’s eyes had already travelled past him, narrowing slightly in appraisal, and fixed themselves on the young man who followed with a quiet step, hat in hand, looking neither abashed nor forward, but simply attentive to the proper moment of being addressed, his posture erect yet unassuming, his dark coat brushed free of travel dust.
“And this,” said Mr. Bennet, drawing slightly aside as if to bring his companion into the light rather than into prominence, with a subtle gesture that conveyed both introduction and quiet pride, “is my cousin’s son—Mr. William Collins.”
Mrs. Bennet’s look altered in an instant into something that might, at a charitable distance, be called graciousness—though a keen observer might have detected the rapid calculation beneath her smile. She dropped into a curtsy which, though not quite so low as it would have been for a baronet’s lady, was still sufficiently emphatic to declare that she did not mean to be outdone by anybody in acknowledging consequence, whenever she could discover it.
“Mr. Collins! How do you do, sir? You are exceedingly welcome, I am sure—though I confess,” lowering her voice a fraction and darting an expressive glance at her husband that spoke volumes of prior grievance, “I had imagined Portsmouth produced nothing but sailors and fevers. Pray come in. You must be quite worn out.”
William bowed, and in the very act of it displayed that propriety which disarms criticism; for he had none of that awkward eagerness which courts approval, nor yet the stiff silence which seems to scorn it—his movement precise, his expression serene.
“You are very obliging, madam,” said he, in a voice young, but steady, and pleasantly modulated, without the roughness one might expect from his origins. “The journey has been pleasant, and I am sensible of the honor of being admitted at Longbourn.”
Mrs. Bennet blinked—half pleased, half puzzled—at hearing the word honor applied to her house, her cheeks coloring faintly as she absorbed the unexpected compliment; and she would have replied with greater warmth still, had not the maid’s hurried announcement of her husband’s arrival already drawn the daughters together in the parlor, where they now waited in eager expectancy.
They had assembled at once upon hearing that their father was come—Jane laying aside her needlework, Mary closing her book with care, and the younger girls abandoning their whispered conjectures—so that all were present when Mrs. Bennet turned toward them, no formal summons being required.
“Girls,” said Mrs. Bennet, with brisk authority heightened by excitement, “pray attend. Your cousin is here.”
“My dears,” said Mr. Bennet, with a faint smile that betrayed his private amusement at the scene unfolding, “this is Mr. William Collins.”
Then considering he has had allowed his wife’s effusions to exhaust themselves without interference, he added with quiet composure.
“My daughters, Mr. Collins,” Mr. Bennet said, in a tone at once civil and gently authoritative. “My eldest is Jane.”
Jane advanced a step, her manner unembarrassed and gracious, and made her curtsey with a sweetness that required no instruction. William bowed to her with respectful precision, struck at once by her calm countenance and unaffected kindness.
“My second is Elizabeth,” Mr. Bennet continued.
Elizabeth followed, her curtsey less studied but perfectly proper, her eyes bright with intelligent curiosity as they met William’s. There was nothing bold in her look, yet nothing vacant; she observed him as one might examine a new book whose title promises more than its binding suggests.
“This is Mary.”
Mary inclined herself gravely, with a seriousness that suggested she felt the importance of the introduction keenly, and regarded their cousin with an expression of thoughtful scrutiny, as though already considering what sort of mind he might possess.
“And these two,” Mr. Bennet added, with the faintest softening of his voice, “are Catherine and Lydia.”
Kitty curtsied hastily and would have retreated at once, but Lydia, scarcely nine and full of impatient animation, bobbedagain—less from politeness than from eagerness—and stared up at William with open interest, as though Portsmouth itself were written upon his coat.
William acknowledged each in turn with careful courtesy, his attention evenly distributed, his manner free from either condescension or awkward self-consciousness; and in doing so, he gave no offence to the elder girls, nor encouragement to the younger—an equilibrium which Mrs. Bennet observed with cautious approval, and which Mr. Bennet noted with silent satisfaction.
William bowed again—first to Jane, then to Elizabeth, then to Mary, and lastly to the two youngest, who curtsied with such unequal success that Mrs. Bennet’s eye twitched with suppressed anxiety, her hand fluttering briefly as if she might correct their posture from afar.
“How do you do, cousin?” cried Lydia at once, as if relationship were a right of address rather than a privilege to be measured, her voice ringing with unbridled enthusiasm. “Have you ever seen a cannon? Papa says Portsmouth has cannons.”
“Lydia!” exclaimed Mrs. Bennet, in a tone of mingled rebuke and alarm, her color rising as she cast a mortified glance toward their guest. “You will not begin with cannons. Mr. Collins is not come here to speak of guns.”
William’s lips moved—whether into a smile or into a struggle against one was not immediately clear, though a faint warmth touched his eyes; but when he answered, he did so with such gravity that Lydia, who expected either scolding or laughter, stared at him as if he had produced a rabbit from his pocket.
“I have seen cannons, Miss Lydia,” he replied, “and I confess I liked them less than I like peace.”
“How very proper!” said Mary, approvingly, nodding with solemn satisfaction, as if the remark were made expressly for her benefit.
“And do you like books?” asked Kitty timidly, twisting her fingers in her apron, for Kitty loved whatever was safe to enquire.
