The name produced an immediate effect. Lady Catherine’s countenance brightened with the satisfaction of a plan long meditated now brought to fruition. “Ah—yes. Pray admit him.”
Mr. Collins entered with measured seriousness, bowing low as propriety demanded, and advanced only so far as the arrangement of the room and the magnitude of his situation permitted. He was of slender, lightly built stature, neither tall nor imposing, yet possessed of a quiet symmetry that rendered his figure pleasing rather than insignificant. There was nothing martial in his frame; instead, it suggested habitual study and moderate exercise, a body more accustomed to walking, standing, and patient attention than to feats of strength. His movements were easy and unforced, marked by a natural restraint that spoke of good sense rather than self-consciousness.
His countenance was open and intelligent, the sort that invited confidence at first glance. The lines of his face were fine rather than bold, softened by youth and by an expression of habitual thoughtfulness. His eyes—clear, observant, and quick to warm—carried an air of earnest intelligence, as though his mind were always quietly engaged, even in moments of repose.They did not challenge, but they noticed; they did not dazzle, but they understood.
The vicar’s hair, worn in the current fashion yet without excess, framed his face in a manner that enhanced its animation, and his mouth—inclined naturally toward a restrained, reflective smile—gave early proof of good-nature and civility. One sensed at once that he listened more readily than he spoke, and that when he did speak, it was with the intention of being useful rather than admired.
In dress he was neat, correct, and modest, favoring sobriety over display, yet wearing his clothes with an unconscious grace that suggested he neither undervalued nor overestimated his appearance. Nothing about him sought attention; and yet, taken as a whole, he left behind a favorable first impression—that of a young man intelligent without arrogance, gentle without weakness, and practical without coarseness.
There was, above all, an air of benevolent purpose about him: the look of someone inclined to be helpful, to set things in order, and to find quiet satisfaction in doing what was right and necessary. If he did not command admiration at once, he inspired something rarer and often more lasting—goodwill, accompanied by the sense that he would prove, in time, both steady and worthy of trust.
He was keenly aware that he stood before persons of rank and consequence unknown to him personally, yet already invested in his fortunes; and though his manner was respectful, it was not abject, being steadied by a sense of genuine gratitude and quiet self-command.
Lady Catherine surveyed him fully before speaking.
“Mr. Collins,” she said, “you are come, I presume, upon the business of the poor-relief distribution.”
“I am, your ladyship,” he replied, with composed humility. “And I am deeply sensible of the honor of being received.”
She inclined her head, satisfied, and gestured toward the gentlemen present.
“You will allow me to make you known,” she continued. “This is my nephew, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire; and this gentleman is Mr. Bingley, whose acquaintance I believe will not be without future utility to you.”
Mr. Collins bowed in turn, receiving their civil acknowledgements with evident gratitude and a modesty that did not descend into servility.
Lady Catherine then settled herself more firmly in her chair, as though preparing not merely for business, but for instruction.
“After Mr. Collins received ordination at Easter, I offered him the rectory of this parish, fully confident he would perform the rites and ceremonies instituted by the Church of England with becoming seriousness.”
Surprisingly to Mr. Darcy, Lady Catherine de Bourgh spoke of Mr. Collins with a satisfaction that admitted no dissent, and with a frequency that suggested she found the subject inexhaustibly agreeable. He could not conceal a slight elevation of his brows, though he said nothing.
“Darcy, you may look as grave as you please, but I tell you plainly that in securing Mr. Collins for Hunsford I have acquired something far rarer than a title or a fortune—a man who acts, Darcy. He has improved my parish, enlivened my household, and spared me the disgrace of incompetence at myvery altar. Your uncle was right to single him out; I was wiser still to keep him. Mr. Collins has justified every expectation, and several I had not thought to entertain. His activity in the parish is exemplary; his attentiveness to the poor, judicious without indulgence; his manner toward his parishioners firm yet consolatory, and perfectly suited to their station. He possesses the rare faculty of being felt rather than merely heard—a distinction I value highly in a clergyman. His sermons are remarkably affecting—clear in doctrine, earnest in delivery, and so aptly supported by Scripture that even the least reflective are compelled to listen with seriousness. He applies the text with discernment and relevance, understanding that Scripture must illuminate life, not merely be recited—a distinction too often overlooked. But Mr. Collins has shown uncommon readiness to assist in matters beyond his strict duties, offering practical suggestions—among them a proposal for enlarging the stables—that confirm my belief that good sense is not confined to rank, but revealed wherever education and proper deference unite. Even Anne, whose spirits are delicate and whose constitution requires careful management, appears sensibly improved after conversing with him. His manner toward her is considerate without officiousness, encouraging without fatigue. Mrs. Jenkinson declares she has never met such a clergyman. Anne is always better, she observed, ‘after she has spoken with Mr. Collins. He soothes without enfeebling—a most desirable talent.’ In short, I am delighted—delighted—that my late husband’s confidence has been so fully vindicated. Sir Lewis showed excellent judgment in perceiving the young man’s worth; and I take no small pride in having honored both the promise and the spirit of his recommendation. I was charged, Darcy,” she said emphatically, “to take the young man under my protection—and I have done so. And I have not, I assure you, been disappointed.”
Lady de Bourgh now regarded Mr. Collins as a valuable acquisition—not merely to Hunsford, but to the neighborhood at large: a clergyman whose zeal was tempered by reason, whose ambition aimed at usefulness, and whose gratitude gave her the highest confidence in his future conduct.
“He is indefatigable,” she concluded, with an air of final approval. “And when a man of his station exerts himself with such principle and discretion, encouragement becomes not only advisable—but necessary.”
Once the praise for the clergyman was over, Lady Catherine turned to him and firmly proposed, certain that his wish would be granted.
“Before we proceed,” she said, “I think it proper that these gentlemen should hear—directly from you, Mr. Collins—the circumstances which first brought you to my late husband’s notice. Circumstances,” she added, with emphasis, “which might very easily have ended in tragedy.”
Mr. Collins colored faintly.
“You will oblige us,” Lady Catherine concluded, leaving no room for refusal, “by giving an account of the affair.”
Thus summoned, and conscious that silence would be neither modest nor prudent, Mr. Collins drew a steady breath and began—while Mr. Darcy listened in attentive stillness, his gaze fixed upon the narrator with increasing gravity, and Mr. Bingley prepared himself with exemplary politeness to hear a story whose importance was already evident.
“My lady,” he began, “I should never presume to trouble such distinguished company with—”
“Nonsense,” Lady Catherine interrupted sharply. “It is not presumption to state facts. On the contrary, it is a duty—particularly when those facts reflect credit upon family and patronage alike. Pray proceed.”
Thus adjured, Mr. Collins cleared his throat and began.
“It was in October of 1809, my lady—for the Michaelmas term had just commenced at St Edmund Hall. I was returning from my lectures at about three in the afternoon when I observed a carriage of uncommon elegance drawn up in front of the building where I lodged—a carriage distinguished at once by its crest and general air of aristocratic consequence. The gentleman himself had just stepped down and was preparing to mount the steps to the physician’s apartments when, suddenly, two roughly dressed men appeared—scarves over their faces, each holding a flintlock pistol.”
Mr. Bingley leaned forward slightly, his eyes widening with interest.
“One forced the coachman to the ground,” Mr. Collins continued, “while the other levelled his weapon at his lordship and threatened to fire. The gentleman begged him not to keep the pistol pointed at him, and in reaching for his pocket—or perhaps the carriage door—he let fall his walking-stick.”
