“It is not extensive; it contains three paintings and some pieces of furniture.”
“What furniture?” asked Elizabeth.
“The bookcase in his library.”
“No!” she cried, starting up as if to defend it. “Never! Everything in that room shall be stored and preserved until one of us has a proper house in which to receive his library entire.”
“It may prove costly. It is a French piece, from the last century.”
“It does not signify,” declared Mrs Bennet. “The girl is right. Not everything is for sale, but this portrait, if it is worth even a pound, shall be sold. That is the truest revenge. No doubt that man wished to be held in esteem by the family.”
“It may be worth far more than a pound. It is by William Aikman.”
“Then sell it, and we shall make use of the money.”
“Then there is that painting from Mr Bennet’s library.”
“The one with the boats, from Papa’s room,” said Elizabeth. “As we have said, everything there remains.”
Mr Gardiner inclined his head, though whether in agreement or reserve could not be known. At such a moment, every sum was of consequence, but he understood that it was too soon to press the matter. The portrait by William Aikman alone might fetch near three hundred pounds, which could secure the rent of a good house in Meryton for several years—a small return from that Bennet; and, passing into a stranger’s hands, perhaps a fitting end for a man of pride and little feeling.
Anyhow, the next day, when Mr Collins arrived, they were able to preserve their composure and present a dignified appearance of suffering.
Mr Collins’s expressions of condolence were as elaborate as his assurances of future consideration, but all remained within the bounds of what had already been settled with Mr Bennet. They had, in any case, resolved not to request any extension of time, Elizabeth being well acquainted with his narrow disposition, which he sought to disguise beneath his words, while his eyes wandered about the room, or towards the garden, as though to estimate what was soon to be his.
Completely disregarding their pain and every claim of common decency, he at last allowed his satisfaction to appear, as though he spoke the very sentiments of Lady Catherine and took pride in the acquisition of so considerable an estate.
At that point, in legal terms, Mr Phillips explained to him that the entail comprised the estate and the house, while all that belonged to the family was to be removed within three months.
The visit concluded with Mr Collins’s request to view the grounds, to which Mrs Bennet replied shortly, though in the affirmative, and Mr Phillips invited him to make the tour of the estate on the following day, in the company of one of his assistants.
Mrs Bennet and the young ladies breathed more freely. It did not lessen their pain, but their composure owed much to the example Mr Bennet had set them.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth and Jane withdrew immediately, upon his departure, to their chamber. They needed to be alone, to mourn their father together, between themselves.
“A most disagreeable man,” said Jane, who was ever inclined to excuse the faults of those around her. Still, on this occasion, it was impossible. “It is not even the loss of the house that offends me when I see him, for that is the fault of our ancestor, yet no man of common decency would have allowed his satisfaction to appear so plainly.”
“He is indeed disagreeable; I can confirm it. I saw him thus in Kent, but I have always wished not to be governed by my own too hasty nature.”
“Dear Papa!” sighed Jane, and the sisters embraced, as they had ever done when tried by some affliction. Nothing of the past, however, could compare with their present misery. They wept freely, because mourning too must have its place.
After a while, scarcely more composed, they wiped away their tears and approached the window which looked upon the garden.
“He did not oblige any of us to marry him, though such a marriage would undoubtedly have spared him the great anxiety with which he left the world.”
“Perhaps my father discerned his disagreeable character,” said Elizabeth.
“In all this misfortune, I can only be grateful for all that he has given us.”
They both looked towards the two boxes, neatly adorned, upon which their names were written. Each of the sisters had received such a box, and though Lydia had opened hers at once, without saying what she had found—beyond a few letters she herself had written to her father—Elizabeth and Jane were unable to open theirs.
“I do not wish to see what I wrote to him,” said Jane, persuaded that the box contained only her letters and perhaps a few words from him. “I cannot read now what he wrote to me. It is too soon.”
Elizabeth agreed; she could not either. For a few moments, she forgot that he had left, but then some small detail would recall him to her, and the pain returned with equal force.
“Do you truly wish to remain here with Mama, in Meryton?” asked Elizabeth.