Mr. Darcy’s brow contracted almost imperceptibly, as though visualizing the peril.
“I perceived then a circumstance which proved decisive,” Mr. Collins went on, his voice steady. “Neither pistol was cocked—the hammers were down. Whether they were loaded I could not know, but the immediate danger seemed less than the intimidation intended.”
“Upon my word,” Mr. Bingley murmured, unable to contain himself, “a remarkably cool observation under such circumstances.”
Mr. Collins inclined his head with a faint, self-deprecating smile. “Necessity sharpens perception, sir. I approached at once, calling out cheerfully, ‘Good day, gentlemen!’ The robber swung his pistol toward me; I stooped as if to be helpful, cried, ‘You have dropped your stick, my lord,’ and flung my books full into the villain’s face. As he recoiled, I seized the stick and struck his arm with all my force. He dropped the pistol with a cry of pain.”
“And struck well,” Lady Catherine interposed briskly, with evident satisfaction.
Mr. Darcy remained silent, but his posture had altered subtly—arms now unfolded, his attention absolute.
“The accomplice fled at once,” Mr. Collins concluded more swiftly, “shouting to his companion that the game was up. The coachman and I secured the wounded man until the constable arrived. He was later transported, I believe, for highway robbery.
“His lordship thanked me and proceeded to his appointment. An hour later, I was summoned: Sir Lewis, with great kindness, promised me a living upon my taking orders. In that single moment on an Oxford street, the course of my future was altered—I little knew then how deeply the name de Bourgh would one day be entwined with my own.”
A short silence followed, broken only by the crackle of the fire.
Mr. Darcy regarded Mr. Collins with a look of grave assessment—no approval hastily expressed, no censure offered, only a quiet, penetrating consideration that weighed action rather than narration.
Lady Catherine, however, was not disposed to allow reflection to linger unassisted.
“My husband,” she declared, “was profoundly affected by the shock. Dr. Gale warned that prolonged agitation might have proved fatal. Sir Lewis himself believed his life preserved by the young man’s presence of mind.”
Mr. Collins looked genuinely distressed. “I was never made aware of the full extent of his lordship’s delicacy—”
“No,” Lady Catherine cut in with majestic finality. “You were not. But I was. And before his death, he charged me expressly to ensure your advancement when the time came. I have merely fulfilled that charge—and I am glad I did. Had Sir Lewis not related every particular himself, I should scarcely have credited it.”
Mr. Bingley exhaled softly, a warm smile breaking free. “Well, I can only congratulate Hunsford on acquiring a clergyman who defends both doctrine and nobility with equal vigour.”
Mr. Collins bowed, overwhelmed but sincere.
Mr. Darcy, at last, spoke.
“You acted,” he said quietly, “without seeking consequence, and accepted consequence without display. That is no small thing, Mr. Collins.”
The clergyman colored deeply, and for once found himself wholly unequal to speech, his gratitude and confusion alike depriving him of any reply that might have been offered with propriety.
Lady Catherine nodded, perfectly satisfied, as one who had stated a case beyond appeal. “Precisely. And now that the matter is properly understood, we may proceed to tea.”
She rang the bell with decisive brevity; and when the maid appeared, she directed her, without lowering her voice, to bring the tray with the teapot, cups, sugar, and milk, as though the arrangement of refreshments were a matter scarcely less consequential than the business just concluded.
The tea-tray was brought in with the promptitude that characterized all movements at Rosings. Lady Catherine surveyed the arrangement with a critical eye—ensuring the porcelain was of the finest quality and the cups placed with perfect symmetry—before dispensing them herself, an office she never delegated when she wished to direct the conversation as well as the refreshments.
When the gentlemen had been served, she turned to Mr. Bingley with that air of benevolent authority which rendered any evasion futile, her tone implying that the subject was one she had long intended to settle.
“I trust, Mr. Bingley,” she began, fixing him with a steady gaze, “that your late journeys to Charing and Eastwell proved fruitful in some degree. Did you discover any property likely to suit your taste and consequence?”
Mr. Bingley, who had been quietly admiring the delicate pattern on his cup, set it down with a rueful yet amiable smile, his open countenance betraying no resentment at the interrogation.
“Alas, no, madam,” he replied cheerfully. “The houses were handsome enough in their way, and I was obliged to admire the civility of their owners, but neither quite answered my expectations.”
Mr. Darcy, seated opposite with his customary composure, inclined his head in quiet confirmation, his grave aspectsoftened only slightly by the warmth of the fire. Mr. Collins, meanwhile, listened with keen attention, his posture betraying an interest far beyond mere politeness, his thoughts already turning toward the implications of such a search—for a gentleman of Mr. Bingley’s evident affability and fortune might prove an admirable match for his cousin Jane, whose gentle beauty and serene disposition would surely captivate so agreeable a disposition.
“They lacked the particular situation my friend requires,” Mr. Darcy observed at length, his voice low and measured—a tone that suggested settled judgment rather than passing fancy—“convenient, yet retired; with a good view, a nice garden, an air and aspect of unquestionable healthfulness, and grounds that invite improvement without betraying neglect.”
Lady Catherine gave a decisive nod, as though the shortcomings of Kentish estates were a personal inconvenience she fully intended to correct, her expression conveying not doubt but resolution.
Mr. Bingley colored faintly at the indirect praise, shifting slightly in his chair with the modest discomfort of one unaccustomed to such open discussion, while Mr. Collins noted silently the quiet authority in Mr. Darcy’s tone—a quality that spoke of discernment and responsibility, and which he could not help thinking might one day be well matched by Elizabeth Bennet’s lively intelligence and independent spirit.
