Page 3 of Mr Collins in Love
There were Miss Polkington and her sisters; Miss Henrietta, Miss Emma and Miss Patricia.They were gentlewomen with no fortunes.One of them would doubtless be glad to say yes to their young rector.Only they did titter so, and had such a quantity of aunts, all of whom would doubtless insist upon visiting very regularly.My long peaceful evenings would be quite at an end.
Perhaps a lady from further afield who had not so many relations in Kent?
Before Lady Catherine had bestowed the living upon me, I had been curate to a Mr Clarke, in Sussex, not far from where I had grown up.He had three daughters.They had laughed at me behind my back and sometimes played me tricks, stuffing paper in my hatband and salting my tea, but perhaps they would be kinder now I was in a position to marry?Mr Clarke had not been my friend, exactly, and could be rather terse, but he would not likely gainsay me a visit.
Yet I saw in my mind’s eye the pretty faces of his daughters, arrayed about the dining table like flowers, ringlets shaking and eyes bright with silent derision as they glanced at one another and then at me.
I kicked at a nettle at the side of the path.
Cats.Those Clarke girls were little cats.
Or no, because that was unfair to domestic felines, who had ever been sweeter to me than they.
I am not easily angered or offended.I know my shortcomings too well.I am no wit, no sportsman.I am pleasing neither in person nor in conversation.But I had really done my utmost with the Misses Clarke.I had tried always to be pleasant and polite.I had prepared little compliments and spoken no words but of praise.I had attempted to model my conduct upon that of the local squire’s son, a gentleman whom the Misses Clarke had professed to esteem most highly.
I took a deep breath and unclenched my fists.I had not noticed that I had clenched them but recalling the Misses Clarke did that to me.Well, doubtless, my anger was unwarranted.Likely, I was the one at fault.All the same, I should not look to Sussex for a wife.
If only I knew a sympathetic fellow with whom I could discuss this matter of finding a wife, as honestly as decency would allow.Yet I had ever struggled to make acquaintances.I had but one friend in my youth, and Jem was a common farm labourer’s son and long lost to me besides.
A sweet ache arose in my chest, as it did when I thought of Jem and his preferment of me.I had been afraid of him at first due to his large size, his beetling brow and hare lip, all of which had given him a fearsome aspect.But I had soon learned that for all his brawn he was mild and gentle, kind to wild things and upset by strife or raised voices.Once I had got to know him, I had privately sometimes fancied him kin to the giant, feather-hocked horses his father had once worked with on the farm; so strong he had no need to prove it.
We had not talked much, Jem and I.He had been my father’s gardener’s boy and had perforce many duties to attend to.It had been enough that he had sometimes joined me on my rambles about the woods and the levels, that he had let his shoulder rest against mine when we sat side by side, and that he had seemed to take it for granted that we should share whatever we had, whether it was my hatful of blackberries or his crust of bread.
The year we turned fifteen we had shared some other things besides, but then I had been sent away to school and when I had returned at the end of that dreadful first term, he had run away to sea.I had never seen him again.
I passed beneath the great oak, which stood in my favourite section of the park, but even the proximity of that gracious giant could not cheer me today.The path dipped through a coppice of sweet chestnut, and there, across the little footbridge, was the rectory.Myrectory.I had dwelt there since Easter and it was but June, but had I lived there all my life, and my forebears before me, I could not have loved it more.
It was a solid square building of grey stone, with two storeys and some garret rooms above for the servants.It had a neat, dependable, well-appointed aspect.The flower garden was a riot of colour, with roses and honeysuckle, celandine, lavender, pansies and eglantine.There was an orchard behind, with damsons, apples, pears and cherries, as well as a mulberry tree and a nuttery with a spreading walnut, white filberts, hazels and cobnuts.Beyond that, my glebe lands; two fine pastures with sheep, half a dozen cows, and some pigs.
I passed the profusion of raspberry canes and gooseberry bushes, and the vegetable garden with its rows of carrots, beans, onions, leeks, potatoes and marrows.Many of these I had planted myself and, despite my current dilemma, it gave me a thrill to see those rows burgeoning.There were the herbs; the lovage and the fennel, the mint, marjoram and thyme.The drone of the dumbledores grew loud and the air was shot with gold.
Perhaps I could find a wife who would understand that nothing must be changed?Who would see that my folk must not be upset and made to do anything differently?
I sighed.That did not seem likely.
Some people, I am persuaded, are made for happiness.They understand how to enjoy and to husband it.Since my first bewildered week at Hunsford, when I had walked about in a daze, I had suspected something terrible would happen to rob me of it.I had ever felt like a child with a honeycomb who has just kicked the hive.He can feel his happiness.He can, perhaps, even taste it, but he knows that in a moment it will be gone.
I squared my shoulders.To expect happiness in life is to be fortunate indeed.Even if I married, I would still have the living.I would still be the rector.I would have that, most likely, until I died, unless I disgraced myself in some truly ghastly manner.
Even with a shrewish wife, I would have my study with the window that opened onto the lilacs, and I would have my garden and the song of the bees and my walks in Rosings Park.And if my wife despised me then I should endure it, as I had endured life before Hunsford, with as much patience and courage as I could muster.
Mrs Fowke came hurrying towards me from behind the house.Her hair was escaping her cap and she was red-faced and frowning.She carried a colander and must have been on her way to the vegetable garden.Picking vegetables wasn’t usually her job, so likely George was poorly again.She was probably worried about him, hence her expression, which was usually more pacific.
I greeted her, and she bobbed a curtsey.
“Oh, Mr Collins, there you are, sir.Oh, sir, I must tell you.George is taken bad again and there’s been a foreigner in the lane all afternoon.And he hasn’t come to the door, and he hasn’t gone away, and Mr Butler came by in his gig and we thought that had scared him off, but Milly saw him again not half an hour since and he’s after our fowl, I’ll be bound.”
I could not understand her alarm, for foreigners, as she called them, came regularly to Kent.They were Londoners, generally, looking for work on the farms.I wanted to get to my study and find a piece of sermon paper and list the names of the ladies I had considered so far.Two lists, actually: ‘Suitable’ and ‘Unsuitable’.I did not want to forget anyone for the Unsuitable list.
“Probably he is merely looking for work, Mrs Fowke,” I said.
“But it ain’t time, sir, begging your pardon.The planting’s done and the hay in, and the hops not ripe for weeks.And he was a big-looking ruffian and all.Very ragged.”
I could feel no true alarm, even though the rectory was at the far end of the village and if George was in his bed, there was nobody about but the women.“Very well.I’ll go and see.”
I went around the house, stopping in at the front door to get my stick from the hall table.If there was some wayfaring fellow about, twopence would probably do more good, and this I had in my pocket, but my stick made it clear to Mrs Fowke that I was taking the matter seriously.
The lane was empty in both directions, the hedgerows dreaming in the late afternoon sun.Butterflies hovered about the meadowsweet.Finches peeped and fluttered.Velvety dust arose about my ankles from the road, so white my father, had he been alive, might have used it to powder his wig.
