Lydia leaned across the table, her eyes sparkling. “Can you do it again? Do it to Lydia!”
Mrs. Bennet’s face brightened, for she had already decided that such behavior in a young man was very pleasing, and that any young man who could amuse her children must haveexcellent principles—her earlier doubts now quite banished by this display of agreeable talent.
“Do not vex him, Lydia,” she said—though her tone suggested that vexing him would be delightful, and her smile encouraged further mischief. “Mr. Collins cannot be expected to pull coins out of all our ears at once.”
“I could try,” said William, and produced—quite calmly—a second coin, this time from Lydia’s ribbon, which had been tied in such an uneven bow that it appeared to have invited the miracle.
Lydia squealed, Kitty laughed, Mary sighed with resigned forbearance, Elizabeth’s eyes danced with lively appreciation, and even Mrs. Bennet—who, when she was pleased, was pleased without moderation—declared that Portsmouth must be a place of great education, if it produced such clever boys.
“You must have learnt that at school,” she cried, leaning forward with eager curiosity. “Or perhaps from the Navy! I daresay sailors are always full of tricks.”
“It is possible,” said Mr. Bennet, “that the Navy is responsible for all sleight-of-hand in England.”
***
When the ladies withdrew that night, the gentlemen lingering only briefly over their port, Mrs. Bennet was so far softened towards Portsmouth and all its consequences that she spoke of William Collins in the tone she commonly reserved for agreeable neighbors and the best dressed of the Lucases.
“I declare,” she whispered to Jane, as they went up, her arm linked affectionately through her eldest daughter’s, “he is quite a respectable young man. So steady. So proper. And with such neat manners! Not like those idle boys who do nothing but stare and laugh. I am excessively pleased—excessively.”
Jane smiled gently. “He seems very good-natured, Mama.”
“And sensible,” added Elizabeth, with a thoughtful note that acknowledged the deeper qualities she had discerned. “Which is rarer.”
Mrs. Bennet sighed with satisfaction, as if she had personally produced him. “And to think,” she went on, her voice softening further as the evening’s impressions settled, “your father will have it all his own way, as usual. Still—if the boy makes a figure, it reflects credit on the family, and that is always something.”
Lydia, dancing ahead, called back, “Mama, will he pull out a guinea next time?”
“Hush, child,” said Mrs. Bennet, though not without a smile that betrayed her own lingering delight. “You will frighten him away.”
Elizabeth, lingering for a moment at the landing, exchanged a look with Jane—half amused, half tender. William Collins was not the sort of cousin who would set their hearts in motion; but he had, in two hours, done something more difficult: he had made himself welcome without effort, and respectable without dullness; and in a house where noise and nerves were often mistaken for life, that quiet steadiness felt—unexpectedly—like comfort, a gentle balm amid the customary whirl. And curiously enough, in the warmth of her newfound approval, Mama had quite forgotten her earlier resentments and omitted any mention of how poor he was.
***
The following morning dawned clear and temperate, and breakfast at Longbourn was conducted with rather more animation than usual, owing chiefly to Lydia’s firm conviction that Mr. William Collins had concealed an entire treasury about his person and must, with sufficient vigilance, be compelled to reveal it. She stationed herself opposite him at the table with an air of determined watchfulness, her chin propped upon her hands and her gaze fixed with comical intensity, her eyes seldom leaving his hands, while Kitty hovered near her side, torn between hope and apprehension, casting occasional furtive glances that betrayed her own lingering fascination.
“You cannot do it again, Cousin Collins,” Lydia announced, with the confidence of one who had already decided the matter. “Not if I look.”
William, who had entered the room with his customary quiet civility and now sat buttering his bread with deliberate care, raised his eyes to her with an expression of mild inquiry, the faintest hint of amusement softening his grave features.
“Do what again, Miss Lydia?”
“The thing,” she said impatiently, gesturing vaguely with her fork. “With the money.”
Elizabeth, who was pouring tea, hid a smile behind the teapot. “You must forgive her, cousin. Lydia believes all mysteries are solved by sufficient staring.”
“I see,” said William gravely. “Then I shall endeavor to look entirely ordinary.”
This declaration, delivered without the slightest change of countenance, so disconcerted Lydia that she forgot herself and laughed outright, her peal of mirth drawing indulgent smiles from Jane and a soft chuckle from even Mary.
Mrs. Bennet, who had been watching the exchange with pleased attention, her earlier reservations now quite dissolved in the warmth of the young man’s unassuming charm, declared that the young man possessed a most dry humor, and that she did not wonder Portsmouth sharpened wits, when so many people were obliged to live in close quarters, adding with a complacent nod that such accomplishments were certain to stand him in good stead wherever he went.
Wednesday morning passed thereafter with a succession of small domestic occupations, in which William bore his part without awkwardness or presumption, his manner so unassuming that it disarmed even the most critical observer, and his willingness to assist in trifles—such as carrying a basket of flowers for Jane or steadying a volume for Mary—earned him quiet approbation. He walked with the girls in the shrubbery, where Lydia insisted on racing Kitty along the path, her laughter ringing through the greenery as she darted ahead with reckless abandon, and where Jane, mindful of propriety, kept the company together with gentle authority, her soft reminders to mind the dew upon the grass guiding them with effortless grace.
William listened attentively to Elizabeth’s observations upon the neighborhood, his questions thoughtful and well timed, betraying a genuine interest that drew from her a rarer warmth than she usually bestowed upon new acquaintances; asked Mary about her reading without impatience, nodding gravely as she expounded upon Fordyce’s Sermons with her customary solemnity; and submitted to Lydia’s challenges witha seriousness that rendered them harmless, turning her playful demands into gentle diversions that left her contented rather than thwarted.
In the afternoon, when rain threatened—dark clouds gathering slowly over the distant hills—and drove them indoors, Elizabeth persuaded their cousin to recite something—anything—by way of amusement, her eyes sparkling with that mischievous encouragement she reserved for occasions of light-hearted trial.
“You promised learning, Cousin,” she said, “and Lydia insists on marvels. Surely between the two, you can contrive something noteworthy.”
