“Experiment!” she repeated, with a look of offended sensibility. “I am sure I never thought of it as such. A young man so obliging, so attentive—helping in kitchens, you say?—it shows an excellent disposition. Quite the thing in a good clergyman.”
Mr. Bennet made no attempt to correct her enthusiasm, contenting himself with the knowledge that approval, once secured, was best not examined too closely.
As December advanced, and the term drew toward its natural pause, William’s letters took on a different cast. He wrote of the approaching recess, of students dispersing to their homes, and of the altered pace of the household, which, though still orderly, admitted a little more ease.
It was upon the receipt of one such letter, written in the first days of the month, that Mr. Bennet laid down his spectacles, sat for a moment in thoughtful silence, and then took up his pen. He wrotewith a brevity softened by kindness:
“My dear Cousin William,
As your first term appears to come to its conclusion with every satisfaction to those interested in your progress, and as it is neither reasonable nor desirable that you should remain in Oxford during the Christmas season, I hope you will do us the favor of spending that time at Longbourn. Your presence will give us sincere pleasure, and you may depend upon finding nothing in our manner or arrangements that need disturb your habits of order or study. If this proposal suits your convenience, you may rely upon a very cordial welcome.”
The letter was dispatched at once, and its effect, when it reached Oxford, was immediate and deeply felt.
William read it twice before folding it, his expression composed, yet softened by a warmth he made no attempt to suppress. That he should be invited from inclination rather than obligation touched him more nearly than he could readily explain. He answered without delay, expressing his gratitude with the same restraint that marked all his communications, yet allowing himself, for once, a line of unguarded feeling.
Professor Saunders, when informed of the invitation, approved it at once.
“You will do well to go,” he said, with his accustomed plainness. “Industry is best sustained when it is occasionally relieved, and gratitude, when acknowledged, strengthens ratherthan weakens the mind. We shall resume our labor in the new year with all the greater steadiness.”
Thus it was settled; and as the days shortened and the air grew sharp with frost, William Collins found himself counting—not with impatience, but with a quiet, reflective pleasure—the hours that lay between him and Longbourn, and with them, the renewal of faces and affections which had already begun to shape his life in ways he had never anticipated.
***
On Christmas morning, the Bennet family set out for church beneath a pale winter sun, the frost still clinging to the hedgerows and the air sharp enough to color the cheeks and brighten the spirits. Mrs. Bennet, wrapped more warmly than any of her daughters and walking from the carriage to the church entrance with a resolute step that betrayed her sense of occasion, was in a state of mingled triumph and agitation; for she had not been able—nor, indeed, inclined—to keep entirely to herself the intelligence that their young cousin was now a student of St Edmund Hall, Oxford.
Since Mr. Collins had accepted their invitation to spend Christmas at Longbourn, at least half the parish was already acquainted with the fact, and the remainder were in active pursuit of confirmation. Heads inclined, whispers passed from pew to pew, and more than one curious glance was directed toward William Collins, who bore this quiet scrutiny with a composure born not of indifference, but of habit. He stood beside Mr. Bennet with respectful gravity, his countenance calm, his manner unassuming, as though the notice he attracted werean inconvenience to be endured rather than a distinction to be enjoyed.
The vicar, who was not a man to overlook either novelty or promise, greeted the Bennets at the porch with cordial civility, and after the customary salutations had been exchanged, turned his attention—very deliberately—to their young guest.
“Mr. Collins,” he said, lowering his voice with clerical discretion, “I am told you are pursuing your studies with a view to holy orders.”
William bowed. “I am, sir.”
“And that you possess a cultivated voice,” the vicar continued, with a glance that suggested the inquiry was not entirely without witnesses. “If you were willing, we should be honored by your leading a hymn this morning—apart from the general singing.”
Mrs. Bennet caught her breath. Mr. Bennet, for once, looked genuinely surprised, his brows lifting in a way that suggested both curiosity and a sudden reassessment of the morning’s possibilities.
Young Mr. Collins hesitated—but only for a moment. The pause was not born of vanity, nor of fear, but of a serious consideration of propriety. Then he inclined his head.
“If you think it fitting, sir,” he said quietly, “I would be glad to oblige.”
The service proceeded with its accustomed solemnity, the familiar prayers and readings carrying a particular resonance on that morning, when the church was fuller than usual and every voice seemed softened by the season. William followed the liturgy with attentive reverence, yet Elizabeth—watching him from her place beside Jane—observed a change come over hisexpression as the sermon concluded: a steadiness deepening into resolve, a quiet drawing-in of purpose.
When the vicar at last turned and gave him a small, expectant nod, William rose solemnly.
There was no haste in his movement, no attempt at effect. He stepped forward with measured dignity, and when he reached the front of the church, paused only long enough to collect himself. Then, in a clear, well-supported baritone, he began—
Adeste, fideles,
Laeti triumphantes…
The Latin flowed with an ease that bespoke long familiarity rather than display. His voice was neither ostentatious nor restrained to timidity; it filled the church naturally, carrying warmth without excess, devotion without affectation. The congregation listened in a stillness broken only by the faint creak of pews and the soft intake of breath from more than one astonished parishioner.
Mrs. Bennet sat quite motionless, her hands clasped tightly together, her eyes shining with a pride so intense that it bordered upon reverence. Mary leaned forward, wholly absorbed, her expression one of solemn rapture. Kitty stared, wide-eyed and unblinking; Lydia forgot herself entirely and only remembered to sit still when Jane laid a gentle hand upon her arm. Even Mr. Bennet, who was not easily moved by public performances, felt something within him yield—not to admiration alone, but to a deeper satisfaction that this young man, once so uncertain in his prospects, should now stand so quietly assured of his place.
Yet Elizabeth, attentive as ever to the subtler movements of feeling, perceived something more. William did not sing tothe congregation. His gaze, though modestly lowered, returned again and again to one place only: the second row of pews, where Miss Charlotte Lucas sat beside her mother. He did not look at her openly; there was no impropriety, no presumption. And yet—his voice softened there, warmed, as though the meaning of the words had found a particular home.
Venite adoremus…
