Page 28 of Mr Collins in Love
There.Again.Weeping, followed by a low moan.
It came from the lake.The haunted lake.
The hair prickled on the back of my neck.
I got to my feet, frowning.I did not believe in ghosts.Such things were rank superstition.I attempted to peer through the hedgerow, but it had not yet been cut and I could see nothing but leaves and branches.The weeping came again and I sidled along to find a better vantage point.Near to the gate that led to the lake was a place where the hawthorn grew thin.
There was a young lady on the shore, and she was no ghost.She was Miss Polkington, the eldest of four sisters, and from my parish besides.The Polkington girls had been on my Unsuitable list due to their tittering and their great quantity of aunts.Now, perhaps, I was feeling less fussy, but the family had recently been embroiled in the most terrible scandal.Miss Patricia, the youngest, had run off with a naval officer.That gentleman had deserted her somewhere in Bristol, and all reports told that she was now quite fallen.
I had little knowledge of female fashions, but usually Miss Polkington seemed a neat, well-turned-out young lady, indistinguishable from any other female of her class.It was difficult to see her clearly through the hedgerow, but currently she appeared to be wearing an old coat of her father’s, which was over-large and gave her the appearance of a vagrant.She wiped her face with the sleeve and moved slowly along the lake shore, gathering stones and putting them in the coat pockets.
What could she want with such a quantity of stones?We had once conversed about gardening, for she was amiable enough, and she had vouchsafed to me that she was mad about ferns and had collected many varieties for her garden.Perhaps she was gathering more stones for her fernery.
Ah, but the scandal over Miss Patricia had changed Miss Polkington’s own fortunes of late.Prior to the unpleasantness, Miss Polkington had had expectations of an offer from one Mr Barson, a respectable young man whose father farmed a good portion of land to the south of Hunsford.Miss Patricia’s conduct had caused Mr Barson to withdraw.The Polkington girls were irrevocably tarnished by their sister’s behaviour, and now must marry beneath them, if they married at all.
And all at once I knew why Miss Polkington was wearing her father’s old coat and filling the pockets with stones by a lonely lake.
I hurried to the gate and approached her.
She did not notice me until I spoke.“Good day to you, Miss Polkington.”
She started and turned.The soft skin about her eyes was swollen and her nose was red and shiny.Her bonnet had fallen back and her hair, which was so blonde as to be almost white, was in disarray.Her cheeks were a strange ashen colour.
“M…Mr…Collins.”She reeled slightly, but was not so far gone that she neglected her curtsey.
“You are a long way from home, Miss Polkington.”
She glanced about as if bewildered by this fact.“I suppose I am.”
“Perhaps you will allow me to escort you home?”
“Oh.No.No.That is, no thank you, Mr Collins.I am…very well here, sir.Very well indeed.”
She was trembling and although I saw her at church most Sundays I now noticed how thin were grown her wrists and how dark the circles beneath her puffy eyes.Her sister had ruined her chances with Mr Barson and she was suffering because of it.
“All the same, I think we should go now,” I said.“It is getting late.”
“I do not wish to go.”She cast a glance at Hock’s Hole.I did too.The breeze was whipping up wavelets that were grey at the tips and quite black beneath.Bottomless, they said it was.
“Your mother will be wondering where you are, will she not?”I asked.
Her mouth trembled.“No.”
“I think she will,” I said.“And your sisters.Your father, too.”
“Let them wonder.”Her mouth made a strange grimace.“It matters not.”
“Miss Polkington, I hope you will forgive me, but you are a young lady and while your father may not object to your coming here alone, I think I would be remiss in my duty as your rector, and indeed, as a gentleman, if I allowed you to remain here unescorted.”
“My father…” Her voice wavered on the word and she paused, closing her eyes briefly; I supposed against her feelings.“Father does not mind my walking alone.”But she dropped the stone she was holding back onto the turf.
Matters hung in some kind of hideous balance and what I said next mattered more than words usually did.
Trafford had a dozen suitable remarks, principal of which was that if her father had been a little less permissive with his daughters, she might not now be labouring under the burden of shame and loss that had brought her to the cold lakeside.A burden, moreover, which would be loaded ten, nay, twenty-fold upon her family, were she to give in to her feelings and make fact the mortal sin she was contemplating.
A few months ago, I should have given voice to these sentiments, which were fitting and correct, the Church having clear commandments upon such matters.But while I had been Trafford a good deal of late, I had also been Master Willie, and sometimes Jem’s Blackbird besides.
I knew, now, that sometimes a man may say what was in his heart, and it was not in me just then to lecture Miss Polkington about her father’s failings or the additional shame she would visit upon her family if she killed herself.I felt, instead, that I should give her a way out of this ghastly situation in a manner which would allow her to retain her dignity.
