A chorus of birds orchestrated Mr. Collins’s triumphant stroll from Lucas Lodge to Longbourn. Sunbeams refracted through his pearlescent white complexion as if through a prism, blasting rainbows where a mortal’s shadow should be. In this moment, he was no mere mortal–he was an English Apollo: bright, triumphant, and Anglican. He jumped in the air clicking his heels, thus bruising them forever.
As the vicar sang his tra-la-las for the local fauna, he tossed his walking stick into the sky like a baton, where its circular spins briefly eclipsed the sun and then tumbled, with the dignity of a gymnast, back into his be-ringéd hand. Ah, yes–his engagement ring. Originally his mother’s, it had rested in a velvet-lined case until just this morning, when he placed it on his own finger the moment Charlotte agreed to be his wife. She had chuckled at the unusual adornment–a generous response, considering her true horror at the sight. However, Mr. Collins assured her, it was not for the sake of his own vanity; Lady Catherine (who, he reminded her, hated the sight of bachelors) would certainly appreciate having their few, pre-wedding dinners unblemished by bandless hands.
Mr. Collins arrived at the gates of Longbourn–destined to be his gates–and paused. He had faith in his own restraint, and was confident he could share his happy news in a manner that invited the appropriate congratulations, without lingering to indulge in any excessive fawning or self-regard. His thoughts on the improvement of Longbourn–and recommendations for the removal of its current tenants–could wait for a future visit. In fact, he found himself eager to collect his belongings and return to Lucas Lodge, that arrangements for the nuptials might begin at once.
He strutted up the path past the grazing horses and Mary Catherine’s mud castles, rapped upon the front door, and doffed his cap.
“Bonjour, mi familia—” he began, expecting to be announced to his waiting admirers. He was greeted, instead, by the sight of Mrs. Bennet on the staircase.
She was dressed quite regally for such an early visit, which Collins had to admit was pleasing.
“Mr. Collins!” she roared.
“My good cousin! I must say you look exceedingly fine. Indeed, this garment reminds me of one of Lady Catherine’s dressing gowns. Wherever did you get such a–”
“Magazines!” Mrs. Bennet interrupted.
“Well now! And for what occasion do you dress so? Have you,” he smiled winningly, “anticipated my good news?” Mrs. Bennet did not indulge him.
“I’m afraid I must speak plainly.”
Collins, detecting a desire to confess, turned on the vicar vibes: “Then speak, my child.”
Mrs. Bennet descended the stairs like Hera (had there been a Greek Myth where Hera descended something other than her high horse). She came to rest three steps from the bottom, bringing her eye-level with Collins, who was tall.
“You haunt Longbourn for days. You stalk our Marys as a lion would a buffet of gazelles, and wave your entailment round like a handkerchief. All this we endured happily, so as to save our family home and grant you a wife. Yet you have proposed to Char–”
Mrs. Bennet was seized by a revolted cough. She could barely get the words out; the traitorous name burned like acid in her throat. She breathed deep.
“Charlotte,” (another big loogie), “Lucas! Charlotte! Lucas! When you had your pick of a litter of Bennets! All my Marys at your beck and call!”
“Not all Marys,” and here Collins mopped a plop of his cousin’s phlegm off his stoic face, “No, Mrs. Bennet, if the Lord grants me memory enough I believe the eldest Mary, Mary Jwayne–”
Mrs. Bennet convulsed: “Jane!”
“–Yes. She was spoken for apparently, by Mr. Bingley. Yet, e’en now I do not see a ring on her finger,” his own ring gleamed as he held it aloft for Mrs. Bennet to see–she made no comment.“So I did not exactly, as you say, have my pick of the litter.”
“But Mary Elizabeth–”
“Miss Mary Elizabeth was chief amongst my interests, until she too was taken off the table.”
Mrs. Bennet contorted her face in a mixture of fury and self-admonishment. “She was not expressly forbidden–we merely encouraged her sister, Mary, as we thought you might find her the most agreeable–”
“Mary does not want to be a wife. She wants to be a church organist.”
Mrs. Bennet gripped the carved railing to prevent herself from collapsing, or possibly flying into orbit.
“But why Charlotte Bitch Lucas?”
“Because!” crowed Mr. Collins, “she can talk to me about shelves! She can talk to me about something other than morals, or virtues, or the Lord (who don’t get me wrong I’m obsessed with!) She treats me as more than just a Vicar, just a man of God. We talk about wallpaper. We talk about drawer space. We talk about lamp fixtures and window art and mulch. I don’t just want to be married. I want to be a good homeowner.”
“You never wanted to be married,” hissed Mrs. Bennet, “you’re only here because Lady Catherine scolded your bachelor ass.”
“God bless her for doing so. Otherwise I never would have met Charlotte Lucas, the love of my life.”
Game, set, Collins. He donned his cap, bowing curtly to Mrs. Bennet, and moved past her on the staircase to collect his belongings–and if a tiny fart moved through him in his travels, it did so without diminishing his triumph.