“I hope not very long ones,” said Kitty anxiously.
William Collins, standing a little apart with his hat still in his hand, received these varied attentions with a modest gravity that neither invited notice nor declined it. Yet beneath his composed exterior, a tender glow of achievement warmed his heart—he who had so lately feared himself unworthy now felt the first gentle stirring of quiet hope. When Mrs. Bennet at last addressed him directly, her manner softened into something almost maternal.
“So, Mr. Collins,” she said, “Oxford has not frightened you away?”
“On the contrary, madam,” he replied, coloring faintly, “it has given me reason to hope I may one day belong there, if I continue to deserve it.”
“That is very proper,” said Mary approvingly.
Dinner being yet some time away, and the household presently engaged in its customary bustle of preparation, Mr. Bennet proposed that William should take a little air after his journey.
“You will find the garden walk unchanged,” he added kindly, “and far less fatiguing, I am sure, than all those dreadful examinations.”
William accepted the suggestion gratefully and stepped outside, where the declining sun had softened the light and lent a gentle warmth to the early autumn air. The familiar paths, scented with late roses and damp earth, soothed his travel-weary spirit, and he walked slowly, allowing the peace of home to settle upon him like a kindly hand.
Near the edge of the garden walk, Jane and Elizabeth stood in conversation with a young lady friend of theirs, whose calm countenance and sensible address rendered her a welcome companion at Longbourn. Jane was listening with her usual benevolence; Elizabeth, animated by the exchange, had just turned to laugh at some observation when William approached.
The lady was then introduced to him as Miss Lucas, and William, who had acquitted himself creditably enough in Oxford, now discovered that a far simpler encounter could occasion far greater embarrassment. He had expected nothing more than a civil exchange, and was therefore unprepared for the composed ease of her manner—neither shy nor forward, but marked by a natural self-possession which struck him at once. Inher countenance, there was no striking beauty, yet a thoughtful sweetness that invited confidence without presumption, and in her address, a steadiness that seemed to promise sense rather than display.
William bowed and answered her greeting with care, conscious of weighing his words with unusual attention, and aware—somewhat to his own surprise—that he spoke less than he ordinarily might, while thinking far more than was convenient. He could not have explained why her quiet regard unsettled him, only that it did so; and that, as he withdrew a step to allow the conversation to resume, he carried with him an impression both gentle and persistent, such as is formed not by intention, but by accident.
Elizabeth, watching him with her habitual quickness of observation, was amused to perceive that the young man who had faced tutors and fellows with such steadiness now hesitated over the simplest civility. His replies were respectful, but a half-beat behind his thoughts; his attention wandered, returned, and wandered again, as though he were surprised to find himself so entirely engaged.
As Miss Lucas spoke of some small neighborhood concern, William’s eyes fell upon a cluster of bellflowers growing near the path—fine bloomers, sheltered and vivid still. Acting with a suddenness that surprised himself, he stooped, gathered a modest handful, and turned toward her.
“If I may presume,” he said, holding them out with an earnestness that banished all awkwardness, his voice softened by feeling, “to offer you these, Miss Lucas. They seem to me—just now—to have grown bluer in your presence.”
For a moment, there was silence; then Elizabeth giggled outright, Charlotte Lucas laughed with delight, and even Jane’ssmile deepened with gentle approval. Miss Lucas accepted the flowers with a look of quiet pleasure, her fingers brushing his for the briefest instant, a touch that sent a warmth through him he could scarcely account for.
“You are very kind, Mr. Collins,” she said, meeting his eyes with a smile that was neither coquette nor cold, but warmly sincere. “I shall value them the more for being unexpected—and for the sentiment that prompted them.”
William bowed, happier than he could readily have explained, his heart lighter than it had been in many months, and Elizabeth, observing him closely, felt a sudden conviction—half amused, half thoughtful—that something had begun which no examination at Oxford could either hinder or hasten.
Presently, Miss Lucas observed that the hour grew late and she must return home; due politeness was exchanged with quiet cordiality, and she departed with a final smile that lingered in William’s mind long after she had gone. As they returned toward the house, the bell calling them in to dinner, William followed with a lighter step than when he had gone out, and Elizabeth, falling into place beside Jane, whispered with a smile—
“Our cousin appears to have found more than encouragement today.”
Jane answered only with a look of gentle understanding, and the evening, when it came, bore in it that quiet promise which belongs not to conclusions, but to beginnings—the tender, tentative promise of hearts awakening to unforeseen possibilities.
***
The morning was clear, though not warm, and carried that particular freshness which belongs to early autumn, when summer has not yet withdrawn its colors, but has already surrendered its certainty. Mr. Bennet ordered the carriage soon after breakfast, and William Collins was glad that the time of parting had arrived, so that he might carry the good news back to Portsmouth without further delay.
Longbourn did not lie upon any regular post-road, and William, who possessed neither horse nor conveyance of his own, had therefore been dependent upon his cousin’s consideration in all matters of travel. Mr. Bennet, with a practical kindness that never announced itself as such, had resolved to take him as far as St Albans, where the London stagecoach might be readily secured, and from London the onward journey to Portsmouth was direct and well-known to William.
They set out together in the mild light of the morning, the gravel crunching beneath the wheels as the carriage turned from the sweep and took the road beyond the park. Neither spoke at first. Mr. Bennet, who understood the value of silence, left his companion to his thoughts; and William, seated opposite him, watched the hedgerows pass with an attention that was less to the country than to what lay within himself.
It was the first time he had travelled this way, and St Albans—whose towers came gradually into view as the road descended—appeared to him with that mixture of novelty and gravity which marks the entrance into a wider world. The town was awake and active when they arrived: carts stood before inns, horses stamped and shifted in harness, voices called from door to door, and the air was filled with the ordered movement of departure. It was here that the London stagecoach regularly stopped; here that William’s independent journey would begin.
Mr. Bennet saw to the arrangements with quiet efficiency, spoke a few words to the coachman, ensuring William’s place was secured and his small portmanteau safely stowed atop, and returned at last to William, who stood waiting beside the coach with a gravity beyond his years.
“You will do very well, my lad,” Mr. Bennet said then, not as encouragement, but as judgment. “Write when you reach Portsmouth. And do not forget that steadiness is worth more than haste.”
“I shall not forget, sir,” William replied. His voice was composed, but his eyes betrayed the weight of the moment. “I shall never forget what you have done for me.”
Mr. Bennet inclined his head, as if unwilling to accept gratitude for what he considered no more than a proper use of means and opportunity. He did not offer his hand, nor any embrace—such gestures were not his habit—, but gave a brief nod of acknowledgement instead. Then, with a final glance to confirm all was in order, he stepped back toward his own carriage.
The driver of the stagecoach called the passengers to board. The door of the stagecoach was closed. The horses moved forward. And William Collins, borne away toward London and the long southern road beyond it, felt the coach settle into its rhythm, the familiar swaying that soon dulls outward sensation and sharpens inward thought. Behind him, Mr. Bennet’s carriage turned back toward his home, its wheels raising a faint dust that settled quickly in the still morning air.
