Pemberley Shades. D. A.Bonavia-Hunt

      “Here is an odd thing,” he said. “We were talking only yesterday of Mr. Collins, and this morning a communication has come from him.”

      “Mr. Collins? What does he say? But I can guess. Do read it to me, however.”

      “You had better read it for yourself. I fear I cannot do justice to the rotundity of his phrases.”

      The letter was as follows:

      Honoured and dear Sir,

      Having received intelligence that the Rectory of Pemberley is presently vacant through the decease of the former incumbent, whereof I had unhappily remained ignorant until this forenoon, I take up my pen most respectfully to make application for the said benefice to be conferred upon me, upon favourable consideration of my special and peculiar claims to your notice, at the same time assuring you of my fervent gratitude and steadfast desire to serve you should you deem me worthy to hold and enjoy it.

      As I have had the honour aforetime of officiating before you in Hunsford Church, it should be unnecessary for me to recommend myself on the score of either eloquence or delivery. Some years have passed, unfortunately, since you had the opportunity of judging my performance, but I can confidently assert that it has not in the interval suffered any deterioration in matter or expression, and I hereby state that it shall ever be my first aim and dearest object to inculcate in my humbler parishioners that respect for your illustrious person which is due to high lineage and great possessions, both by frequent and earnest exhortation, and by the constant example of a studied deference on my own part in all our personal intercourse.

      I understand that the income from the living is eight hundred a year, a figure not much above that derived from Hunsford. My reasons for desiring to change my present abode are, however, briefly these. I have every confidence that your patronage will avail to procure my further advancement in the Church, the more so since my connection with your amiable lady, my cousin Elizabeth (née Bennet), will suggest to you the propriety of such steps as will attain that end. It will also be to the advantage of my children to be brought up in the vicinity of your own son, thus laying the foundations of a connection from which considerable benefits may be expected to accrue hereafter. Finally, through my cousinship with Mrs. Darcy, and owing to other circumstances which it does not become me to mention, I fear that I have lost that unqualified approbation with which your aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, was wont to distinguish me. That I have endeavoured to support with all meekness and patience that withdrawal of her favour, now limiting our intercourse to the most distant civilities will not, I think, argue any want of desert on my part, but a truly Christian fortitude. There is, however, no merit in resignation where evils can be remedied, and in this persuasion I appeal to your sense of justice as well as to your compassion for such alleviation of my lot as lies in your power. Hoping therefore to receive a favourable reply to his communication, and ever praying for the continued health of yourself and your lady, I beg to subscribe myself

      Your Humble and Obedient Servant,

      Wm. Collins.

      Elizabeth smiled more than once as she read this effusion, notwithstanding its tactless references to herself which testified to the writer’s incurable stupidity. The scarcely veiled allusion to Lady Catherine’s resentment at her marriage with Darcy was not likely to forward his cause, and how he could think it would passed comprehension.

      If, however, he did sincerely believe that Lady Catherine’s displeasure with him proceeded from a conviction that he had taken a hand in promoting the marriage of her nephew, whom she had designed for her own daughter, with a portionless young woman of no particular family related to himself, he might consider that nephew to be under an obligation to him with some show of reason on his side. Remembering that Miss Elizabeth Bennet had been in almost daily contact with Mr. Darcy that spring now four years ago when she was the guest of Mr. and Mrs. Collins at Hunsford Parsonage, and he was staying at Rosings Park, it was not an unwarrantable conclusion. And although a reconciliation had been patched up between aunt and nephew, Lady Catherine had never forgiven her niece-in-law for the frustration of her dearest hopes, nor by the same token, that young woman’s cousin.

      All these ideas hurried through her head even while the sentences of the letter passed under her eyes. Having read through to the end she looked up at her husband and asked, “How could he only just have heard of the vacancy? It was published in the newspapers at the time of its occurrence, I suppose.”

      “The how or the why does not much signify,” Darcy replied. “He must have missed seeing the notice, and Lady Catherine of course would not deign to mention it.”

      “I am rather surprised that Lady Catherine has not proposed Mr. Collins to you of her own accord. If she is really so tired of him as appears, it is strange that she should neglect an opportunity of getting rid of him.”

      “She may write yet. But in that event I should reply that the recommendation comes too late.”

      “What?” cried Elizabeth, all amazement. “What on earth do you mean?”

      Darcy smiled and, glancing at the servant who kept his station not far away, said, “If you will come into the library where we shall be more private, I will explain.”

      Elizabeth rose with alacrity and preceded him to the door of the library. When he had closed it behind them, he went to the writing-table, and took up a letter lying there.

      “I had this at the same time as Mr. Collins. It is from an old schoolfellow—Lord Egbury of Mentmore in Yorkshire—and is written on behalf of a younger brother, Stephen Acworth.”

      “Is this brother known to you?”

      “Only by repute. I was at Eton with Lord Egbury—George Acworth as he was then—and the second son Walter; but Stephen never came there. I did stay once at Mentmore Castle, but he was away with a private tutor, so I have not at any time set eyes on him.”

      “Then you are not really intimate with the family.”

      “No. George and Walter Acworth were not very particular friends of mine and I do not know why I was invited to Mentmore. I went there and did not much like it. The old Lord Egbury revolted me with his coarseness. He set his sons a shocking example of drunkenness and profanity, and besides treated his wife shamefully, making no secret of his infidelities. The two elder Acworths were good-natured and dull-witted, but from what Lady Egbury told me of her youngest son Stephen I formed the opinion that he was of a wholly different stamp from his brothers—gentle, retiring, serious, and studiously inclined.”

      “And in flight from coarseness and profanity he took orders?”

      “It was understood that the family living was to be nursed for him until he was of an age to hold it. After I left Eton I saw no more of the Acworths and heard nothing more until it was reported that the eldest son had succeeded to the title and estates on the death of his father. And now after these many years he asks me to do him a favour. About a year ago Stephen married, he says, and his wife has lately died. Lord Egbury describes him as overwhelmed with grief, and expresses the fear that his reason may give way under it. Change of surroundings with some occupation is prescribed, and hearing by a side wind that the living of Pemberley is still vacant, Lord Egbury requests it for his unfortunate brother.”

      “But how can you accede to his request without some positive assurance as to his brother’s suitability? You have never seen him and know nothing but what you have heard. Hearsay is no very reliable guide.”

      “True, madam, that has struck me as forcibly as it has yourself. Hearsay is certainly not enough. And so I propose making Stephen Acworth’s acquaintance before offering him the living. Lord Egbury mentions that he has left Mentmore and is staying at the family town house in Cavendish Square.

      “You mean that you will go to London?”

      “There is no alternative, I fear. I shall stay not an hour longer than is necessary for the prosecution of the business, for I abominate being at Berkeley Square without you—any place, for that matter. I would not go if I did not expect to find in Stephen Acworth the very person I have been looking for, and so have this