At Mr. Phillips’s office in the High Street—a neat, busy establishment redolent of ink and parchment—the papers were reviewed and signed with commendable dispatch. Mr. Phillips, a genial man of middle years with a lawyer’s precision and arelation’s warmth, assured Mr. Bingley that possession might be taken within a fortnight, all being in readiness.
Business thus satisfactorily concluded, the gentlemen went to the Red Lion, where apartments had been secured. The inn proved clean and respectable, its parlor comfortable, and its table promising a plain but wholesome supper. As they parted in the corridor—Mr. Bingley showing himself ready to retire to his chamber with expressions of lively contentment—Mr. Darcy paused upon the landing, his manner reflective.
“I must own,” he said quietly, addressing both companions, “that the efficiency of the people hereabouts has impressed me. From the agent’s punctuality to the attorney’s readiness, everything has been conducted with a promptitude and good sense I had not entirely expected in so retired a part of the county.”
Mr. Collins bowed with modest gratification, while Mr. Bingley laughed softly.
“You see, Darcy? Even you are half conquered already.”
Mr. Darcy permitted himself the faintest curve of the lips, but offered no denial.
As they prepared to separate for the rest of the afternoon before supper, Mr. Bennet—who had accompanied them thus far—lingered a moment at the entrance door with Mr. Collins.
“Gentlemen,” Mr. Bennet said, with his characteristic dry amusement, “you have had a long day’s journey and much business besides. I shall not detain you further. But tomorrow evening, if you are not too fatigued, we should be happy to receive you at Longbourn for supper, should it prove convenient. Mrs. Bennet insists—and I confess I should enjoy the conversation.”
Mr. Bingley accepted with heartfelt warmth, expressing his eager anticipation of the pleasure, while Mr. Darcy assented with grave politeness.
Thus the day concluded, each gentleman retiring with his own reflections: Mr. Bingley upon the agreeable prospect of establishing himself, Mr. Darcy upon the unexpected orderliness of Hertfordshire, Mr. Collins upon the happiness of seeing two such worthy gentlemen drawn into the circle where his cousins’ merits might soon be appreciated.
Mr. Bennet and Mr. Collins, having bid the others a civil good-day, set off together along the country road toward Longbourn. The afternoon sun slanted warmly through the hedgerows, and the air carried the faint, comforting scent of turned earth and distant woodsmoke.
For the first minutes they walked in companionable silence, Mr. Collins’s step unusually light, his countenance radiant with the quiet triumph of a day so singularly blessed. Mr. Bennet, observing this unaccustomed buoyancy with his customary dry amusement, judged the moment ripe for conversation.
“You appear remarkably pleased with the day’s proceedings, Cousin,” he remarked at length, his tone mild yet laced with gentle irony. “One might almost suppose you had arranged the entire affair yourself.”
William Collins colored faintly, but his smile did not diminish.
“Indeed, sir, I cannot but feel that Providence has smiled upon us all. Mr. Bingley’s decision to take Netherfield is most gratifying—and the prospect of such worthy gentlemen settling in the neighborhood…”
He trailed off, as though words were scarcely adequate to his satisfaction.
Mr. Bennet permitted himself a faint twitch of the lips.
“There is other news that may add to your felicity,” he said, with deliberate casualness. “I had it from Sir William Lucas only yesterday. It seems Miss Lucas’s intended engagement—to a gentleman some fifteen years her senior, a widower of tolerable fortune—has fallen through. The gentleman in question has withdrawn his addresses, citing some scruple of conscience or inconvenience—I forget which.”
Mr. Collins halted abruptly upon the path, his eyes widening with a mixture of surprise and scarcely concealed hope.
“Fallen through, you say? But Sir William—he had appeared so decided upon the match…”
Mr. Bennet resumed walking, obliging his companion to fall in beside him again.
“Decided, yes—until the gentleman proved less so. Sir William is disappointed, naturally, but I fancy he may now be brought to consider that a clergyman of steady character and respectable patronage—established at Hunsford, no less—might offer advantages not to be despised. A gentleman who breaks his word, after all, can scarcely be accounted preferable to one who keeps his.”
Mr. Collins’s countenance underwent a transformation so marked that Mr. Bennet was hard pressed not to smile outright. The parson’s eyes shone with sudden, radiant possibility; his step, already light, now seemed almost to dance upon the gravel.
“Indeed… indeed, Cousin Bennet,” he murmured, his rich baritone voice trembling with suppressed emotion. “Such intelligence is… most providential.”
And then, as though his heart could no longer contain its joy in silence, a low, resonant melody rose from him—the familiar strains of a favorite psalm, sung softly yet with heartfelt conviction:
“The Lord’s my shepherd, I shall not want…
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures…”
The notes carried clear and steady upon the breeze, warm and full, filling the quiet country road with unexpected music. Mr. Bennet glanced sideways at his companion, one brow arching in mild astonishment that quickly softened into wry indulgence. He had never heard Mr. Collins give voice to song upon an open path—nor imagined the usually solemn parson capable of so unguarded an expression of felicity.
Yet there it was: a baritone psalm of thanksgiving drifting between the empty fields, accompanied only by the rustle of leaves and the distant lowing of cattle.
Mr. Bennet permitted himself the faintest smile—half amusement, half private entertainment—and continued walking in companionable quiet, reflecting inwardly that Hertfordshire, with its gentle influences and unexpected tidings, appeared already to work remarkable wonders upon even the most earnest of dispositions.
