Page 22 of Mr Collins in Love

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I could feel his gaze upon me.“They like you, you know.Folk here.”

I was startled into looking back at him.“Theylikeme?Mrs Fowke, you mean?Milly and George?”

“Aye, them.You ain’t troublesome and you ain’t turned George off when another man might.Appreciate that, he do.And you always call her ‘Missus’.Polite, see?Won’t hear a word against you, she won’t.True gentleman, she says you are.But I don’t mean just them.Mean others, too, hereabouts.”He paused.“Can’t speak for the gentry, mind.But the common folk.”

“They like me?Why?”

“Well…” He lay back in the ferns and began ticking points off on his fingers.“You ain’t always off shooting or bull baiting like young Mr Chambers over Hockford way.Squarson, they call him, and not friendly-like neither.Wishes he was the squire, don’t he?You don’t.You act like a parson.You show an interest and do your duty and you’re free with your charity.Penny here, sixpence there, eggs to widows and that.You gave young Betsy Milner a pound towards burying her Ma in Norwich.Great talker is young Betsy.Told everyone.And you tip when you should and pay your bills on time.”

I blinked.“Any parson would do those things.”

He shrugged.“Your Pa didn’t.Mr Chambers don’t.Nor did the last rector who was here afore you, by all accounts.Couldn’t keep his hands to hisself neither.”He shook his head.“Didn’t dare touch Mrs Fowke, but Milly had a terrible time, poor old girl.Couldn’t be alone in a room with him but he was trying something on.You ain’t like that.”He glanced at me.“Won’t hear that sort of thing from Lady Catherine.”He shrugged.“But then I’ll lay she didn’t know.”

“No.She cannot have known,” I said faintly.

In fact, Lady Catherine had spoken often of the rector before me, and always in the most glowing terms.I remembered how Milly had been when I had first arrived at Easter-time; pinched and nervous.Indeed, I had thought maybe she was sickening for something, or perhaps was grieved by the death of the previous incumbent.Also, while I had not marked it at the time, now I thought of it, it was true that she had seemed to avoid being alone with me.She did not do so now.

“Oh, and you give powerful complicated sermons,” Jem said.

“And that’s a good thing?”

He shrugged.“Oh aye.I mean, there’s some as likes more blood and thunder, but they know Lady Catherine don’t hold with that methodist kind of carrying on, and anyway, there’s plenty as likes your style—all them long words and that.Proper, ain’t it?And you always keep it to twenty minutes.There’s plenty as appreciate that.”

“I am doing my best,” I said, allowing myself to bask in this unexpected feeling of having done the right thing, it having never occurred to me that my parishioners thought well of me.Generally, I assumed they were disappointed in me, irritated by me, or, at best, that they did not think of me at all.

“I know.”He nodded, in a considering manner, then fell silent.

We lay like that for a while but my unease began to grow, for in the past it had often been in moments of happiness that I had become less guarded about my remarks or actions, and then, in my joy, I had disgraced myself.It occurred to me that Jem had told me what others thought of me, but not what he thought himself.

“I hope you know I am doing my best in the garden too,” I said, humbly.“I sometimes wonder if you like me helping, or if you would prefer that I did not.”

He glanced at me.“’Course I like it.There’s always such a sight to do.”

‘Do youreallylike it?’I wanted to beg, but my father had taught me that asking for reassurance was vexing and not the mark of a man of character, so I said, in as confident and as final a tone as I could muster, “Well, that is all right then.”

The breeze rustled in the tops of the trees and the water trickled on, an endless amicable conversation.

“Know what you’re like?”Jem asked, suddenly.

“Do I know what I’m like?”I frowned.“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’ll tell you.You know that little old blackbird what comes when I dig in the garden?Keen, ain’t he?Busy.And smart in his little black coat?Keeps me company, he do.”

I could hear the smile in his voice.I had seen the bird often, sleek as silk.He had no fear of Jem and would hop to his feet, fossicking in the freshly turned soil.

“I’m like the blackbird?”

“That you are.I always look for him, like I always look for you.I’d be that sad if he ever stopped a-coming.”

“He comes for the grubs and the worms,” I said.

“Whyever he comes, he’s welcome.”

It was so unexpected and pleasing a comparison I could not help smiling.“I do wear black.And I do like to help you in the garden.”

“See?You’re a blackbird.”His voice had been light-hearted and jocular, now he paused, and added in a different voice, “Myblackbird.Aye.My little old blackbird.That’s what you are.”He sounded thoughtful, almost tender, as if he was saying something important that he had only just realised.

“Yes,” I breathed.