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Chapter 13 (continued)

"So good to us, I've said before," Mrs. Denny said, forcing herself to beam at the child who was asleep in Franny's lap. "Brother Wellington will finally be here. John is delighted, of course. He admires his brother so much. He sent us little gifts during Christmas. Nicholas got a new set of little gloves and John received a neat, sharp little knife."

"And what did the lieutenant-commander send you?" Franny asked out of politeness.

"Oh, he sent me an-a excellently warm shawl. As I have said, he is such a attentive brother."

"Yes, quite an attentive brother," agreed Franny, admiring Mrs. Denny's shawl.

"He was here in the fall."

"Was he indeed? I am sorry to have missed his visit."

"Such a pity you were not in the county. He was passing by from town to go to the coast. I think it was Dover. Oh, but he brought the joys of London into the country, he did, when he came to see me and John. I thought I felt quite refreshed."

"I never knew his duties could carry him to London," said Franny.

"Oh, it frequently does. He had two gentlemen with him. They came together. Do you know-one of them was Admiral Price, a brother to Mrs. Bertram who was staying at your parsonage?"

Yes, Franny remembered that Mrs. Bertram had mentioned something of that.

"Well now, Admiral Price and Hartright are Wellington's good friends, but they are nothing to Wellington. I had heard it said that the admiral was a man of greatness, but I saw nothing extraordinary in 'im."

Franny thought of Mrs. Bertram's admiration for Admiral Price and did not think that Mrs. Denny's remark was quite just. "We are all of us loyal towards our family," she allowed. "You think well of Lieutenant-Commander Denny, but your regard for him is matched, perhaps even exceeded, by that which Mrs. Bertram feels for her brother. It is all a matter of perception, you know."

"So it is said," nodded Mrs. Denny, "But I say my opinion from experience, and Wellington is really something. You really will see how much you will like him. He is coming this summer."

"I suppose that when the time comes, you will allow me to decide for myself," answered Franny a little wickedly.

Mrs. Denny looked at her with an expression of discomfiture, aware that Franny Collins might have become clever since her acquaintance with Arthur Somerset. "And how was your trip to Hertfordshire?" she asked by way of changing the subject. "Was your relation very ill?"

"Oh, he was very well when we arrived," said Franny. "Mr. Bennet was very kind. I liked him."

"I am glad that he is not sick any more. At his age, I am sure that anything might happen. But for your sake, I am glad all is well either way. I hope the attics are not damp there. I have heard of damp attics before, and they are unpleasant things. I am glad that my cottage is not damp, even if it is small. You do go back to Hertfordshire though?"

"The attics at Longbourn are hardly a concern. As for another visit to Hertfordshire, I do not wish to be the first to suggest it. I have only just come back. I am wholly prepared to wait for an invitation."

"Well, surely your father don't need to expect an invitation to inspect the estate?"

Franny laughed. "Inspect the estate?" she repeated incredulously.

"Perhaps Reverend Collins does not wish to appear eager."

"Whatever for?"

"And who would blame the reverend for a little eagerness?" Mrs. Denny said, without hearing her guest. "Shouldn't one be a little eager when the time comes?"

The girl hesitated. "Mrs. Denny, I fear I do not follow you. Would you be so kind as to explain to me your thoughts?"

"Well, Miss Collins, it is only natural that you would wish to assume your title or property upon the first instance. It is no good waiting and waiting and waiting. I don't see how you can't claim Longbourn, or whatever the name is of the estate, immediately. It makes no difference whether it is yours now or later. It will still be yours."

Franny was struck by her friend's mercenary tone, but could not help smiling at the error. "Well, thankfully, I have no call for your sort of eagerness. I am thankful to say that I am no heiress."

"What a jest to make, my dear Miss Collins!" exclaimed Mrs. Denny. "Modesty-I understand it. There is time enough for you to learn to face up to your estate."

"Mrs. Denny, I meant it in all seriousness."

Before Franny could convince her friend of her earnestness, Mrs. Denny's husband entered the cottage and greeted Franny congenially. "Good day, Miss Collins," he said with a cheerful smile that he did not cast on his wife. "I see that you have returned safely from your journey. Your father and your mother have been very kind to send their gifts with you. I trust that you are all well?"

Franny thanked him for his compliments and, after an uneasy look towards Mrs. Denny, affirmed that everything was settling nicely.

"It seems that this business with Miss de Bourgh, or rather, Mrs. Hunte, is also well. I have just met Captain Hunte in passing. He was very friendly."

"Captain Hunte is a perfect gentleman," agreed Franny.

"I think Mrs. Hunte is very fine indeed," interrupted Mrs. Denny, with an expressive look towards her husband. She disliked not having a share of the conversation. "When I first saw Mrs. Hunte again, I am quite sure I didn't recognize her. London has made her very fine."

"I do not think it was London that improved her so much as her change in situation," said Franny.

"But with that change in situation was her time in town. I always say that London is agreeable to anyone fine enough to afford living there. What societies! What places to see!" There were-or at least Mrs. Denny hoped-stars in her eyes. She looked towards John, wishing that he would see them.

"As my uncle would have said, though, it is also a place of vice and dissipation," said Mr. Denny coldly. "I am almost glad that I will never have enough to yield a life in London." Without another word, he flounced out of the room.

Chapter 14

As in the past, Franny's mother embraced her and gave her a present when she went down to take her breakfast. Her father also gave her a lecture on how to conduct herself now that she was "a year wiser," and ended his speech with an awkward kiss on his child's forehead, commending Franny for being "all in all, a good girl." After breakfast, the Huntes came by to pay her a visit. Aunt Anne handed her a card, along with a pretty pair of dancing slippers which Franny had nowhere to wear them to. Captain Hunte presented her with a book-a translation of gothic German fiction-which the reverend Mr. Collins could not begrudge, as the Tales of Hoffmann were surreptitiously rebounded in a cover that read: Miss Pinkerton's Guide to the Comportment of a Proper Young Lady. The reverend had flipped idly through the first chapter, assuming that Mademoiselle Scudery was a lady who dispensed useful court etiquette to young women, and promptly handed the book back to his daughter in the highest state of approval.

There was also a surprise. Shortly after breakfast, a small parcel arrived by express for Miss Frances Collins of the Parsonage, Hunsford, Kent. Recognizing the handwriting, and more than a little flustered, Franny unwrapped the paper and removed the lid of the velvet-lined box to reveal the object.

"A pendant?" asked Mr. Collins, peering uncertainly over his daughter's shoulder. "It is rather massive. Is the stone genuine?"

"I do not know," said Franny in puzzlement. Resting in the box, was a large, pale green stone, the shade of which made her recall the spring season...and of Arthur's merry eyes. She removed the weighty jewel from its lining and held it up to the window, expecting to see through the pendant's transparency, but instead of working like a glass, the numerous facets of the gem caught the sunlight, and a brilliant, fiery kaleidoscope of colours bounced back and dazzled her. The heart of the stone was slightly flawed, but oddly enough, the blemish seemed to underline a sort of perfection, if such a paradox could be accepted.

"I wonder why Mrs. Somerset would send you a pendant on your birthday," her father remarked. "It all seems rather frivolous to me. It would produce nothing but vanity. It is from your Aunt Maria, is it not?"

Franny nodded hesitantly. The directions were written by her aunt, but the note inside was written in Arthur's handwriting. Was it his present, or his joke? How had he managed to procure the diamond-if it was indeed a diamond? And after his abrupt exit from Hertfordshire, why did he send her anything at all? The note itself, penned in Arthur's characteristic scrawl, was cryptic enough:

Unable to decipher the riddle, Franny shook her head.

"'The Green Sea of Gloom' was the name given to the Atlantic Ocean before the age of Sir Francis Drake and Sir Walter Raleigh," spoke Captain Hunte. "No one knew much about the ocean, and even less could be said of the Americas. For a long time, they thought the end of the world was lay just beyond the sea. Of course, long before that, Christopher Columbus had proved that theory wrong, but still, there was a certain amount of distrust over the western waters."

Mrs. Collins quietly took the pendant from her child and seemed to weigh it in her hands. "How unusual," she said, studying her daughter's face. "I hope my sister Maria has not been extravagant. Paste or real, the pendant would have cost more than a fair price."

"It cannot be paste," said Aunt Anne, also captivated by the stone. "Look at how it catches the sunlight? Paste would never sparkle with such fire."

"Do you think so?" Franny asked eagerly.

"Then you think it is genuine?" her mother interrupted skeptically.

This prompted Franny to halt her eagerness. "Of course, it could be nothing more than paste," she admitted. "I will write to Aunt Maria to thank her for the gift. I would not want her to think that I was ungrateful."

"No," agreed Mrs. Collins, "The sender of a precious gift would never wish for the receiver to be ungrateful."

Franny looked hesitantly at her mother, unsure of her meaning. There was something that she knew her mother wished to raise to her, and she did not know whether she was prepared to hear it. Quickly, she retired to her room to store the pendant away. Before she tucked it in her oak chest between her old dresses, though, she could not resist holding it against her throat. She traced her fingertips along its sharp edges, revelling in the coolness of the stone. What freshness it was to place it against her bare skin. Yet, Franny was uncertain of its beauty, and too reluctant to boast of its worth. A heavy rapping on her door matched the beating of her heart, and the noise of it startled Franny so much that she dropped her pendant on the ground.

"Franny! Mrs. Denny has arrived!" came the muffled voice of her mother. "Do come down when you are ready."

"Yes, I'll be right down," Franny called back. She bent down to retrieve her present and was glad that the stone had not been scratched in its fall. This time, as she placed the stone back into its box, she was seized with a strange fancy. There was a loose thread hanging out from the velvet. She wondered whether it was merely her imagination, or whether there could be something more to the present. In novels, there was always a note tucked inside the secret compartment of jewelry boxes. Very carefully, she tugged at the edges of the velvet lining until she could sufficiently pull the fabric away. "Arthur, you are too indulgent of my whims," Franny murmured smilingly to herself as her eyes fell on the folded piece of paper that had previously been hidden by velvet.

Riddle? Franny was troubled. What was the riddle? Was the first note, the one that read, "Sail not the Green Sea of Gloom" the riddle? Why did Arthur give her a riddle on her birthday, when he knew very well that she was not clever enough to solve a riddle, and that in fact she never kept a scrapbook of riddles and charades, unlike other girls? She pinned the first note to the wall and traced Arthur's scrawl with her eyes. Perhaps daily study of the cryptic message would eventually lead her to enlightenment. Giving the pendant one last gaze, she locked it safely away.

Franny mentioned nothing of the jewel to her friend Mrs. Denny. At the thought of Mrs. Denny, Franny realized that Arthur had always been justified in his dislike of Mrs. Denny. He had not been a fool when he warned her about her friendship with the woman. He had hinted at Mrs. Denny's mercenary character, but Franny had been too proud to accept his advice; now, since learning of Mrs. Denny's assumption that she was an heiress, Franny realized that Arthur had been right.

Franny's perturbation went unnoticed by Mrs. Denny, for the latter had news of her own to share. "Good afternoon, Miss Collins," said Mrs. Denny sweetly. "I have such wonderful news to report to you. Can you guess what it may be?"

"I cannot guess."

"My brother Wellington arrived at Hunsford last evening. He arrived by coach with one of his friends. Do imagine, arriving by coach, when now, with his fortune, he could have purchased a handsome carriage. I could not have known him had he not called loudly to us from the door. His voice is so easily distinguished. At first, I was sure it was a robber, and I told my dear husband to inquire after who it was. 'If he is a robber, do not expect me after him,' John says, and goes back to sleep! I was ever so vexed. 'Will you let us be murdered in our beds then?' I say to him, and at last, he goes to the door, and lo and behold, our brother Wellington with his boxes laid out at his feet. I barely recognized him."

The account of his arrival did not seem to affect Miss Collins as Mrs. Denny had hoped. Really, the girl seemed quite dumb to her report. The woman tried again.

"I hope you will come by some time to the cottage. Baby Nicholas does long so much to see you."

"I shall come by again soon. I came by yesterday, did I not? I must not spoil your child with my frequent visits, or he may grow too fond of having his way in the presence of his friend."

"You are very humble, Miss Collins. I could not help relating all that I knew about you to my brother Wellington. As I understand it, my brother has expressed an interest to make your acquaintance."

Instead of feeling flattered, Franny felt nothing at all. Last summer, she would have received the news with a thumping heart. Last month, she might still have been pleased. Now, she could not recall why she had been so eager to meet Mrs. Denny's brother-in-law. She could only think of the sender of the treasure that was locked away in her room. "I know not whether I deserve such attention, but I thank you for your compliments," she managed at last. "I shall be delighted to visit you some time."

After a few days, Franny recovered sufficiently enough from the acquisition of Arthur's mystery pendant. She fulfilled her promise to Mrs. Denny and set off for the Dennys' cottage, hardly knowing what to expect.

"My dearest Miss Collins," exclaimed Mrs. Denny, immediately embracing her with zest. "I knew this morning as soon as I woke up that you would come by today. Oh, thank you ever so many times for the delightful tea cake. How I do love your mother's tea cakes. Come join us for tea then, Miss Collins, for you are just in time. Do allow me to introduce my brother-in-law to you, Miss Collins..."

Mrs. Denny need not say anymore. The presence of the gentleman in question was too obvious to miss. He stood up immediately, bowed, and greeted Franny with thoroughly genteel manners. He was so delightful to look at, with all the right features that might send a tender young heart into flutters. One never had, and never would again, see a gentleman of such masculine beauty, unless he happened to be the marble work of a classical sculptor. As he sat down in front of Franny, the latter could not help feeling a little overwhelmed by his presence. Franny was certain that he was one of the sailors whom she had seen at the Copperflute Inn when she had been in town. No conviction could be stronger in her mind as she took him in visually and aurally. A prompt from her, and the lieutenant-commander immediately took an interest in that incident.

"Were you the lady who lent the handkerchief to my first lieutenant?" he asked rather incredulously. "This world is a very small one!"

"Some have said so before."

"And I agree with it. I never would have thought we'd crossed paths before had you not reminded me of that day, and yet there was something very familiar in your face-from where I could not quite place. I am sorry that we were not properly introduced before, for then, these past months would not have been such a loss."

"A loss?" asked Franny.

"Certainly, if you will excuse my forwardness: I have been deprived of an eight-month's acquaintance at least, I'm sure."

Franny could not help smiling. She hoped her expression was not a cynical one. At least Mr. Denny's brother did not carry the art of flattery to the point of grossness.

Lieutenant-Commander Wellington Denny was pleasing society, even if he spoke of nothing particularly enlightening. That certain steadfast expression of his Grecian brow and that sonorous timbre of his voice were enough to recommend him. By his friendliness, Franny hoped that she might become better acquainted with him. She did not expect that she could ever love and admire him, but it was engaging enough to be in his presence. Soon, whenever Franny took walks through the country, she secretly hoped to see him.

"Good morning, Miss Collins," the officer greeted her duly one morning. "I did not know that you like coming to the river side."

"The river is very pretty at this time of day," said Franny, looking up at him with a smile. "I used to come here quite often last summer with my cousins."

"I hope I am not intruding."

"You can never intrude on nature unless you destroy its beauty."

"That is a very idyllic remark to make."

"No, not idyllic. It is only my opinion."

"In my opinion, I have always felt that the world was given to us to be used as it ought to be used-as it deserves to be used."

"Use the world, or anyone, or anything, as it deserves, and we would all be very mean people."

Lieutenant-Commander Denny looked at her disconcertedly. "I suppose that after conflicting with your good opinion, I have now violated any chance of joining you by this river side?"

Franny felt abashed. She gestured shyly with her hand. "Oh, no, please, sit down if you wish. The rocks are very dry here."

"Thank you." The officer took her invitation and sat down. "I am not generally a mean person, Miss Collins. I hope you know that."

"I know."

"You do?"

"Yes. Mr. and Mrs. Denny's situation shows how free of meanness you are."

He looked at her as though in wonder. "But suppose I did it out of duty? Perhaps I provide for them because I believe it is my responsibility to do so?"

Franny smiled involuntarily. "I do believe you have some affection for your brother, Sir."

Lieutenant-Commander smiled also. He inquired properly after her family, and after some polite exchanges, they looked at each other as though uncertain whether to proceed with more familiar discussions. Franny commented clumsily on the weather, to which the gentleman replied by expressing a wish to see the White Cliffs on such a beautiful day.

"From Mrs. Denny, I understand that you have been at Dover previously," said Franny.

"She is only partially correct, for though we were along the coast, Mrs. Denny seems to have mistaken the geography. Our ship and our men were at Deal."

"The sea side must be very beautiful," said Franny wistfully. "I have never been to the coast. I have sometimes imagined it, but for my part, I have never seen it."

"I believe that Ramsgate would provide a better trip for a family such as yours," said Lieutenant-Commander Denny. "Ramsgate is a resort of its own kind. Down along the southern coast, though, you might also choose the sea side towns of Sussex. Brighton, I understand, is very elegant and fascinating. The pavilion commissioned by King George is famed for its exotic architecture."

"My father disagrees with Brighton. He has not much of a good opinion for it, I'm afraid."

"Has he an especial reason for the dislike?"

Franny hesitated. "I believe it is related to the doings of an infamous relation. I have never been told the particulars... For my part, I am determined not to let the event prejudice me to the town. Everything I have read concerning the place breathes of ethereal loveliness."

"My uncle was once stationed at Brighton."

"Was he?" asked Franny with interest. She wondered whether this was the same man that she heard about in Meryton. "Did your uncle like it there?"

"I believe he did. The beauty of the place appealed to all his senses. My brother and I were of course quite young at the time, but I can recall vividly the wonders that Uncle John told us about. It seemed that Brighton had everything-places to see, diversions everywhere, good society no matter where one went, even the odd bits of adventure here and there. Now, Miss Collins, you may well imagine what it is like to hear of adventures when one is but a young lad."

Franny tried to suppress some of her enthusiasm as she nodded. "Yes...a little." She recovered herself. "But I suppose, as you were very young, you could not have remembered all the adventures."

"Well, there were no trysts with Napoleon to be sure," said the lieutenant-commander in jest. "Aside from that, there was no shortage of the most extraordinary oddities, and the most remarkable thing was that my uncle found himself entangled in one."

"I hope no one was hurt."

"My uncle was not, although, as I understand it, one of his good friends was."

"Oh dear, it was not serious, was it?"

"That rather depends on what you consider serious." Lieutenant-Commander Denny laughed. "Pardon me, I never thought to draw you in when I mentioned Brighton. I hope it does not change your mind about the place."

"I will not let it change my mind."

"Good, you speak with great resolution, Miss Collins. I have rarely met with any lady who was so resolute with their opinions."

"I fear that you are merely generalizing, or else you are mocking me. As for my opinion of Brighton-Well, I know only too well that I often believe what I like to believe in the things that I read. It is not a very uncommon thing, and I hope you will not single me out for it." There, thought Franny with satisfaction, I have put him on his guard, and he will refrain from further flattery if he is sensible.

Lieutenant-Commander Denny chose to be sensible for a while.

Somehow, after talking about places he had seen and people he had met, Lieutenant-Commander Denny decided that it was time Franny spoke about herself; soon, Franny found herself happily telling the officer about her cousins, the Somersets. Lieutenant-Commander Denny was greatly stirred by the anecdotes pertaining to Morris, Franny's youngest cousin. He soon revealed the cause of his interest: the Dennys had never known such love. Their parents had passed away early, leaving them to grow up under the tutelage of a kind but indifferent elderly couple. The expenses of their childhood had been provided for by their uncle.

"That is why I admire your affection for your cousins," explained Lieutenant-Commander Denny. "When John and I grew up, there was no one willing to love and care for us but our uncle, and he was just as much obliged to earn our bread. You are willing to sacrifice your time and love to those children. No duty impels you to offer your energies as you have done, and yet you choose to love them."

But Morris was an adorable child, Franny explained, colouring in modesty. Morris was a very sweet little boy, quite like his mother in his affections; how could she not make him a favourite cousin when he loved her and always came to her when he could not go to his parents? Franny could not see how one would not dote on a little child who was so innocent and plain in his attachment. There was not question of duty in the matter. "It would be denial to say that I do not love him for being so fond of my company," mused Franny. "I think it is quite funny that he took to me so quickly."

"It has been said that children, especially young infants, have a natural perception of the people around them. I suppose your little cousin Morris saw something of your affectionate nature when he set eyes on you."

"Oh, I do hope so. The first time I held him in my arms, I was only eleven, and he nearly slipped from my arms, for he was such a robust baby, and I was such a clumsy girl." Franny smiled over the memory. "That was the only time when Uncle Somerset and Aunt Maria were ever cross with me."

"Surely you made up for it somehow and won their love once more."

"Yes, I think I must have, or Aunt Maria would never have entrusted her children with me again. Arthur says that I am something of a big sister to them. Aunt Maria tells me that the three of them together are quite a naughty trio, but when I am with them, I never see anything of the kind. Perhaps my aunt was right when she said that I had a power over them."

"I would not doubt that all who meet you must respect and think highly of you."

Franny smiled and shook her head. "You flatter me, Sir. I think not."

"And why should one not? You are not so artful as some ladies whom I have met."

"If so, it seems to me that such an observation is not to be made in front of a young lady," she replied lightly. "I could begin to form odd notions from what you have said. I often suffer from an uncontrollable imagination. Arthur would call it-well, never mind."

"Then I will not continue in that strain.... But what of this young man-you called him Arthur, I believe?" asked the officer. "You mentioned his name several times in passing. I suppose that he is-"

Franny was struck by the officer's attentiveness. "Arthur is...somewhat of a cousin."

"You choose your words most carefully. Is he merely a cousin?" asked Lieutenant-Commander Denny.

Franny blushed at his perceptiveness. "I assure you, he is my cousin in all respects, with the exception of blood-but blood is not a requirement for friendship. And I believe that your question was very impertinent, and I need not have answered it."

"No indeed. And what are the relations between your families then, if he is not your cousin of the blood?"

"My mother and Mrs. Somerset are sisters. Arthur was Mr. Somerset's son from a previous marriage."

"Ahh," the lieutenant-commander pronounced after a moment. "I see."

Franny found humour in his tone of voice. "What do you 'see', Sir?"

Wellington Denny laughed at her expression. "I will be honest and confess to you that I am glad we have cleared the information up. I was beginning to think that there was more and not less to your relations than that. Thank you, Miss Collins - I see that I will enjoy this summer very much."

Author's Note: For a thorough account of the Copperflute Inn incident, please refer to Chapter 6 b.

Chapter 15

Capital, as we have clarified, made Sir William Lucas the person that he was.

He was a man of comfort, not prone to very difficult tasks; only give him a little fortune, a loving wife, and a good home, and he was an honest, happy man. To make him a real gentleman, though, one must also allow for a slight aberration in this otherwise capital character. That is, one does not mean to lessen his knighthood, or even to belittle the capital institution that had made Sir William so comfortable (quite on the contrary, the author has superb faith in the powers of the unrestrained market); but, because Sir William was so trusting and obliging a man to everyone, it did not go by corollary that he was to be entrusted with anything. Indulge the whims of the author for a moment, if you please, and allow her to illustrate...

Some time last winter, the young man he was so proud to call his grandson, Arthur Somerset, solicited him on a matter which seemed to require great secrecy on both their parts.

"There is a matter that requires great secrecy on your part and mine," were the young man's words exactly. "May I trust you to it?" The reader will please excuse Arthur for this lack of judgement. It was through no fault of his own that he could not place his trust in either his parents or those of a certain Miss Collins. Franny's mother had already instilled in him a shock of coldness for his friendliness which he, being a warm person, did not entirely appreciate. Franny's father, on the other hand, was too welcoming, and Arthur was guarded against fathers who enjoyed the company of other people's children rather than their own. Lastly, Arthur could not possibly go to his own parents. His father, in the midst of his sickness, would be grievously upset over the covert purchase of the green diamond, and his stepmother would gloat upon the fact that she had always been right. Arthur did not mind Mrs. Somerset very much (he loved her as any son might love their mother) but considering the previous denial that he had felt anything for Mrs. Somerset's niece, he did not savour the thought of admitting his mistake. Arthur, as one may discern, was a little proud.

This was what had brought Arthur to Sir William.

As soon as Arthur had shown Sir William what he meant, the elderly gentleman took on a battle of two minds. There was the side of him that proclaimed with great pleasure, "Upon my word, is that ever a fancy pendant," and another side of him that made him shake his head and pronounce that it was a bad business indeed.

"You wish for me to deliver this to Franny?" asked Sir William at last, still unable to decide between shaking or nodding his head. "You intend this for Franny? And not for Miss Cynthia Bingley?"

"I can assure you, Sir, that this is meant for Franny."

"And what have you come to me for, my dear boy?"

"I cannot deliver it to her by hand now. My father wishes me to go immediately to Blackburn. Much as I wish to be in both places at once, I cannot be there and at Longbourn."

"Why cannot you deliver it to Franny now?" asked Sir William in confusion. "She is an early riser. You can give it to her immediately."

"Without Mrs. Collins' knowing?" said Arthur. "I am afraid that I am not so clever as to outwit my aunt. She is sure to suspect something. But if you will help me deliver it, Sir, and tell her that it is from you, then I shall be most grateful to you."

Oh, dear, thought Sir William, who did not like the sound of this proposition. To call French silk Chinese (something that he might have done as Mr. Lucas) was one thing, but to attempt to trick Charlotte Collins, his eldest and brightest child, was extraordinary and objectionable to him. He said so, with as much force as his slow mind made him capable of. "If you say that my Charlotte is against her daughter's receipt of your gifts, do you not think you had better follow her advice?" he asked the young man dubiously. "When she presents you with so much reason, you can hardly refuse her opinion."

Poor Arthur, to be so refused by Sir William.

In truth, he had purchased the diamond on a whim when he had been an extravagant youth at university. He had bought it then at an auction, where it had been called rock crystal. However, when he took it home with him, he knew it was no ordinary piece of quartz that he held in his hands. A consultation with several books from his library, followed by an appointment with the father of a friend, an appraiser, confirmed his grave suspicions. Not only had he bought a diamond for a comparatively small price, but he also felt as though he had cheated its original owner out of the gem. However, being only mortal, Arthur kept the diamond, and allowed himself to be congratulated by the appraiser for his good fortune. As he was master of the object, he had the greatest desire to give it to someone worthy of the treasure. He had once been engaged (by sheer luck, he had not even thought of bestowing the pendant on the base Miss Thorpe) and now he was not. He would give the diamond away to the lady whom he felt most deserved such unexpected wealth. It could not go to the showy young ladies thrust on him. The first, and consequently only one he could think of was Franny; she was something of a cousin, in any case, which, he told himself, gave him the claims to present the gift to her. Franny might not wear it, or even think anything of the frivolous item, but once Arthur thought of her, he could not think of settling it on anyone else.

Poor Arthur. He might have met with greater success had he gone to Mr. Bennet with his conspiracy! Sir William, despite being the doting grandfather of the young lady in question, was not to be moved into committing an act against Mrs. Collins. Sir William tried very hard to convince the young man to abandon his course.

"I do not think that my daughter would like it at all," said Sir William. "She cannot like it if she wants you to give no gift to her daughter. You cannot think of defying her."

"What should a piece of generosity on my part be defiance?" asked Arthur in frustration. "Is Franny not your granddaughter? Do you not call me your grandson? So far, the family connection does not make it impossible for such a gift."

"You should not say that, Arthur," said Sir William. In his years of being civil to all the world, he had learned a little something of etiquette. One of them was that a gentleman and a lady never danced more than twice with one another in one evening. (This, at least, Arthur and Franny had not done.) The other was that a gentleman and a lady never exchanged gifts unless they were engaged, or unless they were siblings or cousins. And, Sir William had to admit solemnly, Arthur and Franny were not cousins by the true definition. Besides that, Sir William's granddaughter was young and impressionable; what was she to think if she received such a handsome gift? It would do a great deal of mischief! Sir William refused to be entangled in mischief! This last point was presented with great weight, and the younger man thought on it for quite some time. No, Arthur's resolve must be dissolved! After all, what had the pendant been all about, if not a caprice on Arthur's part? Mr. Somerset's son was generally a man of resolution and confidence, but in the gentler matters of the heart, he was baffled.

"I think," said Sir William at last, "that you had better abandon the scheme entirely."

Arthur's carriage arrived, cutting Sir William's speech short. Alas, in his hurry to leave Lucas Lodge, Arthur entirely forgot to place the box and pendant back into his waistcoat pocket. Rather, it was still nestled within Sir William Lucas' large hands, and Arthur, not seeing it, thought he had already returned it to its original place. With some guilt, Sir William realized his own concealment, and not long after Arthur's departure, the older gentleman thought that despite the beauty of the fancy diamond, he must really give it back to its owner.

Sir William was a man who liked Comfort. Unnecessary exertion of any kind, that promised no great ease or diversion to oneself, was just that: unnecessary. Why had he gone into trade? Simply to enjoy a little profit. Why had he become mayor? To indulge in a little prestige. Why had he retired from his trade? To enjoy his new life not as plain, tradesman Mr. Lucas, but as the civil and universally admired Sir William. Oh, by no means was he a selfish man. If avarice had been in his nature, he would never have given up his old profitable profession; he would have hoarded his gold and silver, and used every attempt to gain another penny. No, Sir William was a wise man who did not believe in exerting oneself overly for gross wealth. He merely knew the steps it required to enjoy a life of Comfort. Thus, Sir William called for his second daughter, Maria, and asked that she would return the object to her stepson when she next saw him. Maria agreed.

Maria Somerset agreed, but she could not help being curious. One must not blame her. One must be optimistic; the box which was now in her hands was not, after all, Pandora's Box.

She opened it as she saw no harm in taking a glimpse at its content. Later, Mrs. Somerset would record in her diary that the fiery light, "absolutely dazed me! I really thought that I would be blinded!" She saw the two slips of paper enclosed in the box as well, and her father, not being the most discreet of persons, said enough to confirm her suspicions. Arthur was still up at Blackburn at that time. He was to stay there for the whole of spring, organizing affairs, reorganizing affairs, and in general, proving to his family and friends that he was not indolent and self-indulgent like the barnacle on an old ship. Arthur's absence was enough for his stepmother.

"Do not worry over the pendant," Mrs. Somerset wrote to her stepson. "Sir William entrusted it to me. I understand the secrecy of the matter and will naturally never breathe a word of it to your aunt my sister."

Franny's birthday approached. Mrs. Somerset left the two notes in the box as Arthur had left them. She wrapped it in paper, wrote out the directions, and had it sent by express to the parsonage in Hunsford, Kent. What Maria Somerset understood from the matter was that the pendant (which, had she known it was a true diamond, Mrs. Somerset would never have entrusted to any stranger) had been intended for her niece. What she did not realize was that Sir William's doubts had sufficiently overcome her stepson's first intention. When Mrs. Somerset promised to take care of the matter, Arthur thought his stepmother meant to keep it under her safeguard until his return. He never imagined, nor expected, nor wished for it to be delivered to Hunsford Parsonage, and certainly not on the occasion of Franny's birthday. As of the present time, he still does not know that the mischief has been done.

In Hunsford, the mistress of the pendant was hesitantly receiving the attentions of an entirely different gentleman. After their last encounter by the riverside, Lieutenant-Commander Denny and Franny saw each other many times. On Franny's part, it was all a coincidence, for she hardly ever went at the same hour of the day. Lieutenant-Commander Denny, though, never arrived at the idyllic spot by accident. He had noticed Franny's preference for the place, and he suspected that he would often find her there, however difficult it was to guess what hour her arrival might be.

Their first introduction may not have been very long ago, but the officer was not one to abandon chance, and he likened Miss Collins to chance. His years at sea had taught him never to denounce fortune, for one's blessing could well be another's fall. His friend and mentor, Admiral Price, had once told him, "In this world, your sunrise is another person's sunset. Someone else's opportunity lost is your opportunity gained. Therefore, do not let it go, or it too will pass you." Wellington Denny took the advice to heart wherever he went.

On his travels, he had met many people. This was especially true after he had gained his rank and reputation; there was never a shortage of fawning ladies, but he had never met anyone quite like the daughter of Hunsford's rector. If he had overlooked her at the Copperflute Inn, it was because he had not then known who she was. Had he realized that the lady was the friend of his brother's wife of whom Mrs. Denny spoke so often, he would not have treated her as a stranger. Mrs. Denny had long acquainted him with Miss Collins' lineage, her promise of wealth, and her disposition. Wellington Denny did not believe much of it. He was not ignorant of Mrs. Denny's tendency to exaggerate. However, between her aggrandizement and the things that he learned from his brother John, Wellington was able to discern something of Miss Collins' character. Miss Collins had been deemed plain, but it was simply because she did not exert to paint herself as ladies "of fashion" often did. Miss Collins was supposedly prim, but it was because she did not display herself with artfulness. She surprised him because she was altogether very different from Lieutenant-Commander Denny's experience with the fair sex.

The officer greeted Miss Collins courteously one morning, and asked whether he could join her. Of course, he knew that she would let him, and he sat down on a patch of fresh grass.

"As I came," he said, "you reminded me of a dryad."

"Is that flattery, Sir?" asked Franny, suppressing her urge to laugh at him.

"Do you dislike it?"

"I do when the speaker does not mean it."

"I can assure you that I did mean it. Did you think that I could ever make a compliment to you and not mean it?"

If Wellington Denny meant to imply more than he dared to say, Franny was unaware of it. His presence had interrupted her in the middle of her meditation. Her mind was preoccupied with the thought of the green pendant that Arthur had given her. Much as she tried to forget the thing, it lurked about in the corner of all her thoughts. The stone had such a hold on her even though it was supposed to be nothing more than quartz. Rock crystal, she told herself, that is all it is.

But rock crystal could not be all that there was to the object. How could it have such fire in its depths, such brilliance even in the darkness, and such freshness in her hands? She had written a brief note of thanks to Arthur, through the care of Aunt Maria Somerset, but as of yet, she had heard no response from him. Aunt Maria would elude to nothing in her letters, and even if Aunt Maria did mention anything about Arthur, Franny was certain that her mother would not pass on the news to her. The mystery of the gem, then, must remain unsolved.

Lieutenant-Commander Denny claimed her attention once more as he cleared his throat. "I beg your pardon, Miss Collins. You seem fatigued. I should not disturb you, but take leave of you at once if you wish me to."

Franny was embarrassed by her own rudeness. "You must forgive me. I suppose it is the beauty of the place that took my mind away."

"This place is very beautiful," agreed Lieutenant-Commander Denny. "I can easily understand why you drifted into your reverie. One can dream too easily in such a setting. If I saw Pan sleeping here on the banks under the warm summer sun, I should not be the least surprised."

"I can assure you that I was not dreaming of Pan," said Franny. "I was only thinking of what you said."

"Perhaps I will give you one more thing to think about then," said the lieutenant-commander. "I received an invitation to take tea at Rosings Park tomorrow afternoon with Lady Catherine de Bourgh and her party. I would like your opinion, for I am hardly acquainted with her ladyship, and I am sure I will know no one else from her party. Am I expected to honour the invitation?"

"It should be an honour to be invited to Rosings Park by Lady Catherine. She does not pay favours to everyone. You must be pleased that she singled you out."

"I have yet to answer the invitation."

Franny could not help smiling. "I suppose you do not know the ways of Lady Catherine. If she sends you an invitation, then you are very much obliged to attend. No one has ever refused to take tea with her. It saves her much the trouble of being declined, you see, and she does like giving interviews at her own leisure. As for the choice of company, you can be sure that you will know someone there tomorrow. My parents and I have been invited."

"That is a relieve to hear indeed! Of course, I do not consider myself shy in company, but it would be infinitely more pleasing to be acquainted with part of the company than none at all. Would I be expected to bring anything?"

"I think your presence will be enough... I should also add that a little flattery may please her at the beginning of the acquaintance, but she prefers politeness and obedience more than anything else."

"Politeness I can certainly understand, but obedience?"

"Yes, obedience. If she asks you to have some tea, you must. If she asks you whether you take sugar, you will say that you do. If she comments on your manners, you must agree with her, though if you find her words disparaging, you have permission to apologize first for the failing before you concede.

"Your career will be of special interest to her, as will be your education and connections. Do let me advise you that what ever may be the case, the less connections you have, the better your visit shall be, for then she may be of use to you, and how she loves to be of use! As well, you should refrain from questioning her ladyship, no matter how great an urge you have in doing so. Impudence in Lady Catherine is tantamount to refinement; impudence in anyone else is simply bad breeding."

Lieutenant-Commander Denny voiced his bewilderment and asked whether she meant to jest.

Franny smiled. "You will see; the hospitality of the daughter of an Earl, after all, must never be looked down on..."

Lieutenant-Commander Denny did as Franny had advised him to do. He paid great politeness to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, answered her with solemn respect, and never stepped beyond the bounds of a guest at Rosings. In turn, her ladyship was attentive to his answers and actively dispensed her advice to him as required.

"If Mr. Denny is very ill," pronounced Lady Catherine when she heard that the lieutenant-commander's brother had caught a cold, "Then let me advise you to send for my personal physician, Dr. Graw. He will come all the distance from Tunbridge Wells, so he will be sure to examine your brother carefully. I find that Dr. Graw is much more attentive to a patient's needs than Mr. Jones. He is also a man of greater years, and is sure to have very good experience. Has Mr. Denny been to Tunbridge Wells? It is a very good watering place; better than Bath, I have heard."

"Unfortunately, my brother has never been there."

Lady Catherine nodded gravely. "Mrs. Pope-do you know Mrs. Pope?-She suffered from rheumatic fever and she stayed at Tunbridge Wells for a year, and now she is quite cured. It was on account of my suggestion that she went."

Mrs. Anne Hunte interrupted her ladyship quietly. "I thought the diagnosis was lumbago, Mother."

"It was rheumatic fever," repeated Lady Catherine sternly. "And as for my daughter Anne, she has a frail constitution. If her constitution had allowed her, she would be capable of many great things. There were times when she was a child that I used to think that all her talents would come to nothing. She had such promise for talents. It was Mr. Jones who first looked to her health, but she never did improve much as a child. It was her heart."

"Mother, you know that is not true. I never had any troubles with my heart."

"Anne often forgets the pangs she used to have. How I tended to her night and day..."

"Oh dear God," Franny heard her Aunt Anne mutter under her breath.

"Fortunately, when Anne was twenty or one-and-twenty, I consulted Dr. Graw, and we began to see the good effects of that treatment."

"It was because Mrs. Collins made me her child's godmother," Mrs. Hunte said aloud.

"...And Anne has never been in better health these last two years."

"Mother, you forget that I..."

Lady Catherine cleared her throat. "Lieutenant-Commander Denny, I shall give you a referral to my physician, Dr. Graw. He shall do your brother a great deal of good. Mrs. Pope's nieces are always telling me what attentiveness he gives."

The officer thanked her ladyship very properly for her generosity.

"It seems to me that of late, Mr. Denny is often unwell," observed Mrs. Hunte, for she gave up trying to correct her mother. "When I last spoke with him, he looked quite pale and fatigued. He is in need of a little relief."

"I must admit that in the last year, his health has not been so good as it once was," said Lieutenant-Commander Denny. "But I trust John will recover his energies sufficiently. Last year's crops at least yielded a good harvest, and their situation is better off than ever before. Also, I am able to spare more to them now than in the past."

"Mrs. Denny must be a prudent housekeeper," commented Mrs. Hunte.

"She is."

"Your brother is a cheerful and industrious man," said Captain Hunte. "He causes me to think back on my last crew."

Lieutenant-Commander Denny's interest was immediately expressed, and it was not long before the two gentlemen exchanged various anecdotes from their respective careers. Many of the things they discussed were not entirely new to Franny, for she had spent a great deal of time learning about naval life; of course, a few of Denny's adventures at sea were fresh and had never been communicated to her. Captain Hunte himself expressed the greatest attachment to the years he spent on his most beloved ship, Medea. His decision to retire from the navy had not entirely been an easy one; only the simultaneous retirement of his ship from active naval service had convinced him that it was his duty to move on.

At the conclusion of this, Wellington Denny voiced a bit of sympathy, at which the good-natured captain laughed. "Well, Lieutenant-Commander, I hope you do not look grave because of my own experience," said the captain. "You are young and diligent and have many years yet before you can begin to consider retirement. In your best years of health and activity, my present kind of life should not lurk in your thoughts."

There was music afterwards in the drawing room. Lady Catherine was quite gracious in permitting Franny to play on the pianoforte, but that was because her ladyship was much too concerned with extracting information from the lieutenant-commander and claiming the young man's attention for herself. Her ladyship was not very successful, for Mr. Collins requested her attentions. (It was in the midst of this conversation that Lieutenant-Commander first heard of the true entail of Longbourn, but of that, more shall be said later.) Upon the first opportunity, like a moth freed, the Lieutenant-Commander rose from his seat and commenced to pace around the room as though he were admiring the paintings that lined the walls. His real object was to approach the young lady at the pianoforte.

Franny's heart was wholly absorbed by a poignant impromptu of Schubert that she was playing when she suddenly became aware of the shadow behind her. Her fingers slipped through an entire bar before she was able to regain her command of the keys. Lieutenant-Commander Denny apologized immediately for startling her and waited until she had finished the piece before speaking again.

"Frances Maria will never be very good unless she practises," Lady Catherine of course lost no time in pronouncing. "Mrs. Collins, your daughter will never be very accomplished if she is not made to practise more."

Franny could not help shaking her head and smiling. "She will never lose such an opportunity to tell me how I may improve," she explained to Denny in a lowered voice. "She is now telling my mother that I must practise here as often as possible, as I am in no one's way in this corner of the house."

"Only imagine," said her ladyship, "When Mr. Darcy's daughter arrives, and not a note of improvement is made to Franny's execution and fingering, the comparison between the two young ladies will be most startling. Bella already performs very beautifully though she is only thirteen."

"Are the Darcys coming this summer?" asked Mrs. Collins in some surprise. Evidently, nothing of this had been mentioned to her.

"Yes, they will be in London for several days, and then they come to Rosings in a fortnight. I will try to make them stay longer this summer. They cannot have much pressing affairs in the summer, I am sure. My nephew Darcy will always have time for me, as will his children."

"I am only astonished that I received nothing from Mrs. Darcy in reference to this," said Mrs. Collins.

"You are not questioning me, surely, Mrs. Collins."

"I would not dream of it, your ladyship."

"I am glad. You see, the Darcys have always been very fond of Rosings Park. I imagine your friend, Mrs. Darcy may well be, though she never admits to it, which is why she never told you that she has been invited to Rosings Park. But she should not act so grievously. I have been a hospitable hostess, and I have extended the invitation to their friends, the Bingleys."

Franny stopped playing for a moment and looked up. The Bingleys! That would mean that she would see her dear friend Cynthia this summer. That pleased her greatly.

Meanwhile, the lieutenant-commander asked Franny for the title of the piece she had just played, and Franny told him, wondering whether he could appreciate the beauty of the melody, and the construction of the musical lines that highlighted so well the tender nuances and delicate timbre of the pianoforte. "It makes one imagine the undulating murmur of water that lies beneath the tides of the sea, does it not?" she asked. Lieutenant-Commander Denny was not as touched as she was but the young officer redeemed himself by searching through a pile of music, and producing the manuscript of a tuneful Purcell Hornpipe, which he asked her to perform.

"That was danced at Meryton!" exclaimed Franny. "We resided at a nearby village in the fall last year, when we were in Hertfordshire."

"Did you say Meryton?" asked Lieutenant-Commander Denny.

"Yes. Are you familiar with the town?"

"No, but my uncle was stationed there before his regiment moved to Brighton. I remember how he spoke of the town in his letters. As I understood it, Meryton was a particularly friendly neighbourhood."

"Well, that was what I also felt. In fact, my grandfather once owned a shop there, and my mother and her siblings were raised in Meryton."

"Is that true? What a remarkable coincidence! And what is your grandfather's name?"

"Lucas. Sir William Lucas."

"Ah," pronounced Wellington Denny. "I am afraid I do not remember hearing his name."

"I suppose your uncle may have mentioned the Meryton Assemblies once?" Franny asked. "The famous Meryton Assemblies were held several times each year, sometimes once a month. It was my grandfather who revived their popularity. He was once Mayor of the town, and then he was knighted."

"Ah!" exclaimed the officer. "Now I do recall hearing about him. But it was so many years ago that my memory of the details is rather unreliable. Yes, my uncle would have attended one of the assemblies. He was fond of dancing." He cast her a wry smile. "Of course, Uncle John was much more fortunate than most young men. He was considered quite handsome in his days. Though I am no judge, having been a child, my uncle was believed to be quite popular amongst the ladies. But enough-I will stop myself here before you think I boast of him too much."

Franny did not mind. "Tell me, did your uncle have children of his own? It seems to me that you were quite close."

"We were close. No, my uncle never married. The only lady he had formed any affections for was a girl from Meryton who meant nothing serious by her flirtations. Besides, she soon enough married."

"Oh, I'm very sorry."

"No, Miss Collins, you need not apologize. It is common knowledge amongst our circles that the lady eloped. A lucky thing for my uncle that he escaped such a match of imprudence, but it was the worst misfortune for his friend, who was the gentleman that the lady fixed on. My uncle's friend had a terrible knack for running up debts and attracting ladies. This particular lady insisted upon following him into London... 'For the adventure,' she said. You may well imagine the trouble that 'adventure' of hers brought poor Uncle George."

"Oh dear," expressed Franny. "It sounds like a very unfortunate business. But certainly everything worked out for the better for your uncle's friend?"

Lieutenant-Commander Denny sighed. "Yes, or so he always says. You see, my uncle's friend had a weakness for spending, but apart from his extravagance, he was really a good man. My brother may not recall very much of it, but Uncle George doted on us. He was the one who encouraged me to strive beyond my situation, never to give up my determination to succeed in life. Evidently, he was industrious, for he managed to scrape together enough to pay off his debts, as well as a sum with which to secure his placement in the militia. He could afford to marry the lady, and he did. On occasion, I still receive his letters, and he is comfortably settled, but as to the happiness of that settlement, he never does say." He shook his head, almost with sadness. "He knows the sorrow of his mistake. His wife is not stingy or mean-she can be very generous, mainly because she is extravagant-but to have formed so unequal a match where there can be no real similarity in taste or sympathy of ideas is, to me, wholly unpalatable."

Franny was moved by Lieutenant-Commander's Denny warm concern. "There is...no hope of better times? Of some release?"

"No. There is always the adage-prevention is better than a cure. We must choose carefully and live with our decisions, or else never make that choice."

"Yes, but there is always a chance of reform."

"There is always a very small chance of reform. I have always felt that one must never settle for anything less than true compassion and mutual understanding. Without these foundations, even the greatest ardour will die into disaffection."

"However, if there still remains a common interest," said Franny, thinking of her own parents, "...Where there is the interest of the family..."

"Perhaps. Only two years ago, I visited him and his family. His children are growing up to be a very fine set of young gentlemen and ladies despite the circumstances."

"Are they very young?"

"The eldest is seventeen or eighteen. She has five brothers after her, followed by two more girls, and they are all, more or less, staunch and sturdy like their parents."

"Oh, a very fine family," remarked Franny, for any family with eight children, and enough arms and legs to go around, will always be considered a fine family. In fact, there were many instances of large families in England. Her mother herself had come from a house of numerous siblings. "The eldest child of your uncle's friend, she is about my age," Franny said.

"Is she? Yes, I suppose she must be, but she is nothing at all like you."

Something in Lieutenant-Commander Denny's look made Franny grow warm. "What is the name of your friend?" she asked, hoping to divert his attention.

"Wickham. That was Uncle George's name."

Franny felt a little poorly as she heard this. George Wickham and family. Mr. Bennet's youngest daughter was Mrs. George Wickham. Her father disapproved immensely of the Wickhams, as did many of her other relations.

From the other side of the room, Lady Catherine telling her guests about her nieces and nephews and cousin who had come to stay at Rosings and been, "in raptures. Do you know, Augustus Somerset's son was quite in love with the grounds. He could never bear a day here without walking through the gardens and the woods surrounding the estate."

"Is the gentleman, whom her ladyship mentions, your cousin Arthur?" Lieutenant-Commander Denny inquired in a hushed voice. Franny could only nod.

"Would you be eager to see him?" he asked, noting her curious expression.

"As eager as I may be to see any friend of mine," answered Franny.

"Am I a friend? Would you greet me with eagerness if I went away and came back as he has done?"

"It would be difficult for you to go away as he has done," said Franny lightly, for she did not wish to give encouragement where none was intended.

The lieutenant-commander did not seem entirely pleased with such an answer, but the time and place was not right for him to press the subject.

"I quite like him," Mrs. Anne Hunte told Franny in confidence after the officer had left, and the two ladies found a moment alone.

"Him?" asked Franny vaguely.

"I mean your friend from the navy, Lieutenant-Commander Denny."

"I did not say that we were friends."

"Oh, from what I saw, I thought you were more than distantly acquainted. This certainly confirms the reports that I have been hearing."

"Reports? I hope you do not mean..."

"No, not to that extend, no. To my knowledge, Mother has heard nothing, for she says nothing about it, and you know how she will talk if she knows any little thing. I do not think that either Mr. or Mrs. Collins would have heard of the report either if they have mentioned nothing of the matter to you."

Franny relaxed sufficiently to laugh at herself. "Flattering as it may be, to be important enough to inspire gossips, there is no merit to them... I should like to know from whom you heard these accusations. So far, the lieutenant-commander is all politeness and parley, but nothing else, and I do not intend to encourage anything."

"I heard the news from my maid, Nancy, who heard it from Miss Grantley," said Mrs. Hunte.

"I do not see how Miss Grantley could have conjured such a thought."

"Apparently, she saw you out walking with the lieutenant-commander on Saturday."

"That was yesterday, and it was not as though it was a rendezvous. We simply crossed paths. Mrs. Denny herself was with us for a time afterwards. Surely there is no significance in that."

"Miss Grantley does not like his sister at all."

"What does she say of Mrs. Denny? I wish I knew."

"That would be hearsay. I will not repeat it."

"Please, Aunt Anne, it could be no worse than repeating ridiculous gossips."

"Well, it was not something entirely complimentary, and I would rather not have you hear it from me. But do you like Mrs. Denny?"

"Do you?" asked Franny.

"You answer my questions with questions! Very well then. We have always moved in different circles; I know too little about Mrs. Denny to decide, but I suppose she can be a nice woman. Do you like her? - And do not answer this time with another question."

"I should think that I do, after all these years of knowing her. I would not listen to the idle reports of Miss Grantley if I can manage it; her ability to understand 'little birds' and listen to words through grapevines, I would say, has augmented since she became engaged."

Mrs. Hunte laughed. "Not very charitable, but undoubtedly well deserved. Perhaps this is all in preparation for her coming nuptials. After all, I expect that Miss Grantley will set up a fashionable house in town, (Grosvenor Square, she says, otherwise it's Harley Street), and then she will want to have as many intelligent anecdotes to entertain her guests with as possible. Her guests, and her husband, would not be easy to amuse by screens alone." However, after a little pause ensued, Mrs. Hunte smiled. "I would like to know what sort of a man Lieutenant-Commander Denny is. Oh, yes, I have met him today, but I am curious for your sake, my dear. You must excuse me for being my mother's daughter. What kind of gentleman does he seem to be? Is he a gentleman?"

Franny recounted what she had learned-of the early death of Wellington Denny's parents, of the uncle who looked after him and his younger brother, and of his joining the navy in order to relieve his uncle. A little more than a year ago, he was made Lieutenant-Commander, and with the recognition had come a handsome living, plenty to help maintain himself and his brother's family. "All this is what you would have heard him tell Lady Catherine today."

"I suppose then, that he has no property?" asked Mrs. Hunte.

"I would not imagine that he does yet, though he spoke of letting one someday from an old friend in Norfolk, from whom he gained his first commission."

"It is very unfortunate that men of merit do not always get what they deserve. Perhaps he has got a rich uncle somewhere?" suggested her friend, though not in seriousness.

"Aunt Anne, you remind me very much of Lady Catherine," said Franny between laughs. "No, I think he had but one uncle, and that uncle was only an officer in a village regiment."

Mrs. Hunte nodded in acceptance. "At least, I must give credit where credit is due. He is easy to converse with, and he is an intellectual of sorts, although Captain Hunte and I would like him much better if he spoke with a little less flattery."

"Yes, he has a habit of paying compliments," agreed Franny quietly.

"Perhaps compliments are good for certain occasions."

"I have sometimes thought so."

"But it is rather taxing for everyday wear."

"Yes, certainly."

Mrs. Hunte smiled. "Then it is nothing?"

"Yes. I can assure you, all your inquiry is for nothing. I am quite untouched." Franny saw the relief in Mrs. Hunte's face, but did not bother to ask for an explanation. She suspected that she already knew.

Chapter 16

Mrs. Hunte, daughter of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, prided herself on the aspects of her character that held her apart from her mother. Whereas her ladyship was pompous and liked every aspect of her being to be perceived as rich and important, Anne Hunte preferred the true value of things without the shiny veneer. Even in their concern for the well-being of those dearest to them, mother and daughter differed in their ultimate purpose. Lady Catherine's intention was to add another success to her résumé of good deeds; her daughter's intention was to promote the happiness of others.

Frances Collins, for example, was one of those youths in whom Anne Hunte vested a great deal of interest and hope. Mrs. Hunte's claims went beyond the duties of being Franny's godmother. The two ladies shared a close friendship which was not to be diminished either by the difference in their years, the disparity in their station, or the contrast in their disposition. For Mrs. Hunte, years of suppression at the hand of Lady Catherine had resulted in a nature that could be both rebellious and resigned. The sickliness she suffered from during the first half of her life had run parallel to that sense of resignation. She never forgot the humiliation she suffered when her mother attempted, first, to marry her off to a cousin with property, and then, to marry her off to a cousin with name. Anne had wanted none of it. Luckily, her sickliness warded off despicable suitors. The year 1813-the year that Mrs. Collins' child was born-marked a turning point for Anne. Perhaps Mrs. Collins understood something of Anne's condition. Mrs. Collins had asked Anne to be the godmother of the infant.

It had not been an easy birth. Franny was either the most stubborn child, or else the most intelligent one, for she lived snuggly within the warmth of her mother well past her time, caring little for the harsh world that had long beckoned her to leave her den. The miracle of it was that despite the late and difficult delivery, both mother and daughter were free of danger. Like Mrs. Collins, Anne had taken one look into the child's face and had fallen into deep maternal affections for little Franny. Mrs. Hunte still thought with some amusement of the awful rug that Lady Catherine had been obliged to give up as a consequence of that unexpected entrance of Mrs. Collins' baby. Actually, her ladyship's reaction had been one of disdain. The more Lady Catherine turned up her nose at the remarkable birth, the more Anne de Bourgh had resolved to love and tender her neighbour's child. Anne de Bourgh had lived up to that resolution well; so too would Anne Hunte.

Now, perceiving that Franny was reaching the age when scheming mamas planned matches furiously and young ladies were hoisted into the whirlwind of balls and dances, Mrs. Hunte could not help maintaining her interest in her goddaughter. Of late, she had seen and heard things coming from the quarters of Lieutenant-Commander Denny. The officer was welcome to being polite and mannerly, thought Mrs. Hunte, but he was not welcome if he was not honourable and honest. Such had been the cause for her earlier conversation with Franny. Such was the cause of her visit to the Dennys'.

Mrs. Denny had greeted her in some surprise. "Mrs. Hunte," she had said at the door to the cottage. "What a surprise this is."

"I thought I would come and make my round of calls this afternoon," said Mrs. Hunte, seating herself at Mrs. Denny's invitation. "I hope I have not come at an awkward time."

"Oh, not inconvenient at all. I am always happy to receive callers, Mrs. Hunte."

"Of course, I would have paid my visit much earlier. As you may well know, your intimate friend Miss Collins, is also my goddaughter and the only child of my neighbour the rector; thus, I had a natural curiosity to make your acquaintance. I understand that it may be rather bold of me to come after such a fashion, and I hope my arrival will not inconvenience you. Will you accept my apology for not calling on you earlier?"

"Not at all, Mrs. Hunte. You must not say that. I remember you called on me that time..."

"Oh, yes, when my husband and I newly returned to Kent. Yes, that might be 'calling' after a fashion. It was a most unusual day... I have seen so little of you and your family that I hope you will accept my invitation to come to Rosings Park and take luncheon or tea with us some time."

"That would be very nice, thank you. My brother Wellington received an invitation..."

"Yes, and my husband and I were delighted to meet him, as was my mother. Does he intend to be Hunsford long?"

"I imagine he may. These are quiet times for him in the navy."

"My husband would understand. He was in the navy too."

"Was he?"

"Yes-did not your brother-in-law mention it by any chance?" asked Mrs. Hunte politely.

Mrs. Denny coloured against her will. "Oh that, yes, I don't know how I could forget."

"Of course, your brother-in-law seems to be a very diligent young man, am I right?"

"He has been called so by many. We are all very proud of his accomplishments. Wellington has truly been an-a excellent officer."

Mrs. Hunte tried not to smile at the slip. "Franny tells me that he is also an excellent brother."

Mrs. Denny nodded her head to prevent another mistake.

"How is Mr. Denny?" asked Mrs. Hunte, looking about her. "Lieutenant-Commander Denny mentioned that your husband was ill. My mother was anxious to see that Mr. Denny consulted the proper physician. What was his illness?"

"He is recovering from a fevered chill," said Mrs. Denny, trying to make the most of things.

"Ah, yes," said Mrs. Hunte, not hearing Mrs. Denny, "A cold. I remember that Lieutenant-Commander Denny said it was a cold. Of course, if a good doctor is consulted, one will know for certain the proper diagnosis, but I am sure that in Mr. Denny's case, it was merely a trifling cold. Sickness of any kind, though, can be very irritating, do you not agree?"

Mrs. Denny nodded again.

"Is this your child?" asked Mrs. Hunte, looking at the toddler who was now looking back at her in curiosity. He had waddled up to her in the manner that young children often do when generally cheerful, and was now balancing himself with his hands on her chair. Anne Hunte could not resist the sweetness of the infant's expression and she bent down to place him on her lap.

"That is my son Nicholas," said Mrs. Denny, watching all this observantly. "He is approaching two years."

"Is he? What a lovely child you are, Nicholas," said Mrs. Hunte. "You must be the little friend that Franny spoke so often of. Are you the darling friend of Miss Collins?"

Little Nicolas seemed to understand her, because his eyes seemed to light up some more at the mention of "Miss Collins." As though sensing a kindred instinctively, he snuggled a little closer to Mrs. Hunte, only as an innocent, artless child could do.

"He doesn't speak much, I'm afraid," said Mrs. Denny. "Nicholas, you had better not bother Mrs. Hunte, now. You'll dirty her dress."

Mrs. Hunte protested. "I like young children, and I think your son is very well behaved."

"Oh, you don't know the troubles he gives me."

"In good time, I am sure you will learn that every child is less trouble if we try and understand the blessing that they are to us."

Mrs. Denny said nothing in reply to this, but a little pink circle of indignation appeared on each of her cheeks. Her guest had meant nothing but kindness, yet in the ears of Bets Denny the remark seemed to be a reproach and Bets disliked Mrs. Hunte for it.

The visit never warmed into anything close to a proper acquaintance, and when an hour had passed, Mrs. Hunte's host made it quite clear that there were other duties that had to be taken care of. With a simple grace, Mrs. Hunte thanked Mrs. Denny for her hospitality. Nicholas cried when he was taken out of his new friend's lap, but that was quickly hushed up by a look from his mother.

"She is a clever woman," said Mrs. Hunte to herself as she left the cottage. She did not care much for Mrs. Denny's drama of expressions and gestures, but she had to acknowledge that Mrs. Denny was a clever woman.

Mrs. Hunte's visit left a bad taste in Bets Denny's mouth. Mrs. Denny suspected the reason for the unexpected visit, but that was not what troubled her. Instead, she suspected that her plans for wealth had come to nothing. She wanted reassurance from Wellington Denny that his match with Miss Franny Collins was still a possibility. The night of his return to Hunsford, he had said not a word to Bets respecting her scheme. He certainly acknowledged that he had received her letter; but he had made no comments on it. It was afterwards, when John was dealing with some business, that Bets had overtaken Wellington. Then, he had obliged her by answering as she had wished. "You needn't feel as though the loss was all on your side," she told him. "I feel the loss as much as you do." Yet Bets Denny had never been one to be afraid of what was good for her, and if she thought a good marriage made by her husband's brother could bring the Dennys out of their petty lot, and into better circles, then she would certainly seize the chance. Surely an alliance with Mr. Collins, heir to a sizeable property, would be that chance. She took the first opportunity that she could to remind Wellington of his task.

Wellington answered her rather briskly for he did not like to be alone with his sister-in-law. "I have no other aspiration but that for my career. Where is John?"

"He has gone to see Mr. Jones."

"Why did you not send for Mr. Jones to come instead? In John's state, I think he is hardly fit to ride alone." His tone was accusing, and Mrs. Denny did not like it.

"You could not expect me to send for the doctor and leave John alone with the baby?" she retorted. "I think it unkind of you to be so mean. You might have sent for Mr. Jones yourself. Where were you this afternoon? Did you enjoy your tea and scones at the Grantleys?"

"Not so much as you would have, I am certain." Wellington sat down and took a look at his sleeping nephew. "What's happened to Nicholas?" he asked. "He doesn't look very well."

"He's exhausted, that's all."

"He's starting to look more like John."

"I always said he looked like his father."

"Yes, but I doubted your meaning."

"Why do you stare at me like that, for goodness' sake?" asked Mrs. Denny tempestuously. "I've been true to John, and you know it. Has John been telling you lies again?"

"My brother has never been one to lie to me. He has eyes and ears, though, and when he feels he cannot trust as he ought to, he speaks to me."

"And you encourage it!"

"Virtue is supposed be 'a' honourable thing. He was allowed to be concerned."

Mrs. Denny tried to look hurt. "I never thought you would mock my manner of speech. But you know I only do it for John and the baby's good. You don't suppose I like talking like that? Now, please be kind, Wellington, and tell me that these last couple of weeks haven't been spent for nothing? You have approached Miss Collins? ...You know John and I have been through much together, thick and thin, and we helped you at first too."

"I know what I owe to John."

"...And what you owe to me, I hope. You know you would never have made your first fortune without my assistance. Remember the necklace-"

Wellington bit his lower lip.

"Then you will consider what I have proposed, won't you?" asked Mrs. Denny with a triumphant smile.

"I have considered it, and it is not as easy as you think. Miss Collins is not as easy as you think."

"A man shouldn't give up what isn't easy. You are a man, and you shouldn't be afraid of work. The end will all pay off, won't it? Your income will finally go with a rightful estate, and you will probably receive patronage from Lady Catherine."

Wellington Denny suddenly laughed-a horrific laugh, his sister-in-law thought. "I do not know what ever gave you the idea, but there is no estate, nor will there ever be. The patronage, as well, is as good as a sham, Bets, a sham. Lady Catherine is no more a bountiful patroness than you are a queen; she only likes her importance, but she has never done much more than give her opinion decidedly on other people's affairs."

Mrs. Denny was speechless. "...But the Collins went to Hertfordshire to..."

"...Visit an ailing relative, and that was all. The property is entailed away. Miss Collins will never get it."

"You are mistaken, Wellington."

"I am not mistaken. Miss Collins visited a Mr. Bennet of Longbourn, near Meryton, Hertfordshire. Mr. Bennet's estate is considerable, but it is to pass on to Miss Collins' father, and then to some distant male cousin, no doubt, and it will never go to Miss Collins. Should there be no more male heirs, the property goes first to Mr. Bennet's eldest daughter."

"It cannot be."

"It is. Do not think me so entirely ignorant, if you please. I am well acquainted with the history of the Bennets of Longbourn. Remember, Uncle George is married to one."

"Well, perhaps there will by Rosings Park. You understand that Miss Collins is the goddaughter of Mrs. Hunte? It could mean that she may one day inherit that grand place."

"I cannot foresee that happening. Mrs. Hunte is expected to live a long, prosperous life."

Bets frowned. "Are you telling me that you have no intention of gaining some property? You must break off the acquaintance with the Collins at once, in that case. I will not have you dally your time away in such a manner."

Her brother-in-law surprised her. "I will do no such thing," he said calmly.

"Wellington!"

"I am afraid I must tell you that I find joy in their company."

"You do not mean it, I hope," exclaimed Bets, who had not calculated this. "Not when Mr. Collins is the dull fool that he is, and not when his wife is so cold and strict. Their daughter certainly is not someone who knows the world as you and I do. There can be no future to associate with them. What benefits can you hope to receive from the acquaintance? They can offer you nothing. I am glad that you have told me of their worth. I am sorry that I assumed anything of them, for I might have spent this last year better."

"This is the sort of friend you are?" asked Wellington. His disbelief was amazing, considering the length of time that he had known his brother's wife. Perhaps it had been pride that had kept him blind to the depths of her worldliness. One can only conjecture. "This is the sort of behaviour you put up simply because Miss Collins is not an heiress? So it has come to this. I believe, now, what John meant. I always thought his letters were too jolly to be true, but his confession in person too dark to be accepted. I won't listen to your suggestions again. They are too perverse to my nature."

"Has your nature been so honest?" Mrs. Denny retorted. "Do not forget that you are not so true a friend either. You cheated your hapless, sickly, young lieutenant out of his family heirloom. I do not call that dishonest, but a better person than I may not vouch for the same."

Wellington's face blanched at this reminder. "I was ignorant and stupid to have listened to you then, but I have repaid that debt in part."

"How?"

"I have been honest and truthful since that time, and never permitted myself to commit another injustice against another man. I intended to reform myself and I have. I am sick of deceit."

Mrs. Denny scoffed at her brother-in-law. "You accepted my suggestion to come and woe an heiress, just as you had accepted my suggestion three years ago to sell the necklace. If you do not care so much for money and property anymore, why do you come to Hunsford?"

"You painted a desirable picture for me, that was all," said Wellington stiffly. "You showed me that there was a lady who could be unblemished and untainted by her money, and yet not be a fool. There was no dishonesty in that."

Bets Denny was angered by this. She would be vicious if she must. "Yes, declare your morals to the world then, but I shall always know better," she sneered. "You love money as much as any mortal. If I knew that Miss Collins was penniless, and I told you so, would you have come at all? I doubt that you would have. Do you not remember your promise? You would help John and me. Do you remember the scheme? You were to marry, receive the property from your wife's hand, and bring your brother back into the circle of a proper gentleman. The estate is clearly lost now. Then why should you not give up your interest in the Collins?"

"I do not," said Wellington, taking another approach, "pretend to be upright in my morals. I know I have my failings, I know I have committed many dishonourable acts in my struggles to succeed (I have been thoroughly ashamed of them these last two years and would do much to make recompense), but upon my life, my interest in Miss Collins was not mercenary, nor do I find her any less fascinating knowing she has neither a shilling nor an inch of land to her name."

"It has only been a fortnight since you've met her. You cannot possibly believe yourself in love when I have known you to have a heart of such cold marble."

"You have been learning poetry."

"What is it then, that made you so satisfied with her?" asked Mrs. Denny, choosing to fling his sarcasm back at him. "Was it her beauty? Her wit? Or simply because she has refused you?"

"I admit that she has none of your beauty, and she is certainly not as artful or as excellent an actress as you are. Her virtues are things that you would not understand. I wonder that I should even explain them to you."

"Have you the notion that her goodness will restore you to innocence?"

"I admit I am attracted to her goodness. Whether or not she will accept me, with my many faults as well as my few merits, is matter that is not yours to mind."

"Then you do prefer her because she refuses you."

"I did not make an offer to her," Wellington reminded Bets. "She cannot refuse me until I have."

"Is she so fair an English rose?"

"She is nothing of the sort. Roses have thorns that they disguise beneath their beauty and their perfume. You may have command of such arts, but not Miss Collins."

Bets saw that the situation was quickly requiring a new technique. She breathed out her low lament. "Do not sully me by suffering to compare us. I do not deserve the insult." She brought her child into her arms and cradled him. Roused from his sleep, Nicholas looked with slight confusion up at his mama, but the child dared not make a sound as his mother spoke. "If you knew how much it hurts me to be compared to her..."

Wellington understood the character she was playing. It was the role of Madonna and child, but most erroneously interpreted by its actress. If she had sat serenely against the backdrop of the riverside, she could have been the model for Raphael... But he knew better than that. He would not be moved.

"I once hoped," said Bets, in something short of a confession, "that I might make your heart bleed for me, as you made mine bleed. It was unfair that you should have retracted your offer and left me when I was so eager to accept you. That was not the way to treat a girl who hadn't a bit of education or connections."

"I was a fool then!" exclaimed Wellington. He took a deep breath to calm himself. "I was a fool then," he repeated with greater restraint, "to have believed in your conjurations, but I found out soon enough. I am only sorry that I could not open John's eyes to you until it was too late. My failure to make him understand your true character was the only error that I had ever committed concerning you. I would be most happy to go back to that time, and laid bare your tricks. Your uncle was a good man, but his goodness never reflected on his niece. You were no innocent, virginal maiden of the earth: You were a jaded charmer of the oldest order. But you will please remember that my eyes were open to you before you had cloyed all of your arts on me."

"Do you need to remind me of that period of my life?" asked Bets softly. "Do you think I could forget? What was a poor, forsaken girl to do? You need only imagine the loss I felt, and you would not try to inflame me with such accusations. John came to me when you did not, and he comforted me as no one has ever tried." She paused. "Come, we are now brother and sister, and this is your nephew resting in my arms. We must put our past behind us, and declare our friendship forever."

"There is no friendship between us."

"Are you so bitter? I said some things that I should never have said. Yes, I was wrong to say what I did against Miss Collins and her family. It was only that I had been so taken by surprise, I hardly knew what was coming out of my lips. But I will not say another thing against her because I do not want to give pain to John when he comes back by letting him know that we have quarrelled. I have John's interest foremost in my heart, and you ought to too." She extended her right hand to him, the softer hand, and would not withdraw it until he had taken it in his hand and shook it. "There, that shall be our truce, Wellington. Let us from now on always proceed as friends." She cast him a placid smile and made her exit from the room.

Once outside, she deposited Nicholas onto the ground, thrust a toy into his hands, and ordered him to remain in his place. Mrs. Denny could not believe the humiliation that she had just endured. Sitting by herself on an old tree stump, she bent forward and thought hard. She certainly did not want Wellington to pursue Franny Collins now that she knew there was no estate attached to the match. The home that Wellington promised would never come from such a common union. It seemed rather unfair to her that all her plans from the last year should come to nothing. Miss Collins had been nothing-no beauty, no money, and no wit; that Wellington should like her company at all was incomprehensible to Mrs. Denny.

Her husband rode up the walk whilst she pondered over this dilemma. He was not so tired as he was before, though he looked paler about the cheeks.

"Bets," he said, quieter than usual. He climbed clumsily off his horse and embraced her, more fervently than he had done in a long while.

"John," she answered, deciding to forgive him in the face of his sudden tenderness. "Have you been to see Mr. Jones then?"

He nodded.

"What did he say?"

"Nothing at all. It is nothing. Only a little exhaustion...from the heat."

"What else?"

"I'm to stay out of the sun. But it should be nothing if I do not exert myself too much."

"You are very tired."

"I am, a little." His eyes lingered long on hers, and at last, he kissed her. "What is Nicholas doing out of doors?" he asked, when he pulled away.

"He woke from his sleep. I thought I might give him some fresh air as he has not been out of doors all day." Bets picked up their child and stroked its cheek. "Do you notice how he has your nose and chin?"

John Denny forced himself to laugh. "He is too young yet to tell."

"No, upon my word, he does. Your brother only commented on it this afternoon."

"Has Wellington come back already? Was he not with Mr. and Mrs. Grantley today? Has he been back long?"

"Not very long." Bets paused. "He is inside."

Her husband nodded. "I should like a word with him alone. Will you mind very much?"

Bets shook her head. What else could she do? She knew when to press her limits, and when to withdraw into the meekness of a pretty young wife that her husband so appreciated. She laid her head on his shoulder with practised ease, and was rewarded with another kiss.

"I am sorry that I was ever cross with you," said John before turning in.

Wellington came to the door half an hour later and told her that she might come back in with her child. Mrs. Denny had jumped when she saw Wellington's face scrutinizing hers; she had not been so honourable as to stand far away from the door. No, she could not hide the fact that she was curious to know what sort of conversation it was that passed between the brothers, but they had spoken in such hushed voices that she had heard nothing at all except the differences in their tones. She did not like a mystery, and this was certainly one. However, seeing her husband putting a kettle to the fire, she said nothing about her feelings. John certainly had a pallor about him that alarmed her. She must bide her time a little.

"Wellington was thinking of visiting Tunbridge Wells," announced her husband. "He has some business affairs to arrange there before he returns to join his navy. I have offered to accompany him."

"Will we all be going?" asked Bets, knowing full well what the answer would be.

"I'm sorry," said John. "It would be very difficult to care for Nicholas, and look to your comfort as well. You shall be among friends here in Hunsford, whereas in Tunbridge Wells, you will be quite bored when I cannot be with you. Besides, we shall not be very long there. Only a week."

"Can we afford such an expense though, John?" asked Bets, ignoring the inquisitive look that John's brother gave her. "Do you think that we could..."

"Yes, we do have enough to spare. I have been saving, and last year's harvest has been very good to us."

"I wish you would tell me what you are going there for."

"It's a matter of business that concerned our uncle," said Lieutenant-Commander Denny. "I could go alone, but I wanted John to come with me as he is familiar with the matter, perhaps more than I am. It would be a terrible bore to you if you came with us, and a great deal of trouble to you too. If you stayed in Hunsford, you could help us receive messages and help look after the cottage."

"Of course," said Bets tersely. "I always do."

Her husband was much kinder. "I am sorry, Bets. I know how you want to travel, but this will be all business. Do you understand?"

"Yes, of course I do. What do you think I am, my dear? I am not a fool. I have been alone before, and have I ever complained? Have I? No, indeed I have not. I have been a good little wife to you, John, and you know it." Bets Denny was the sort of person who admired her own eloquence so well that there were times when even she deceived herself with her lies. She now sat down beside husband to stroke his hand as she spoke. "...You are not to worry a bit. I have friends here in Hunsford, and I shall manage quite well on my own for a week. You know that I have friends at the parsonage. If ever I feel lonely, I have only to call on Miss Collins to ease the solitude. You see, I am not entirely alone in this world."

Chapter 17

Posted On: Saturday, 24 August 2002, at 10:10 p.m.

Having spent more than a generous amount of ink and parchment on the likes of conniving Mrs. Bets Denny, would my dear readers not agree that it is time to turn our little heads to other characters? And who deserves our attention more than Arthur Somerset? He who has suffered the indignities of being called a flippant rogue and a worthless rake, even he has his own bit to tell.

The latest affair of his father's business required Arthur Somerset to leave for London, but Arthur, proving himself to be a man of natural proficiency in trade and commerce, concluded the transaction in a matter of two days. The rest of his month in London, he did what any young man might have done-he spent it seeking out friends and diversions. Thankfully, the revelry that he indulged in were not of the corrupting sort; no, neither he nor his friend, Henry Knightley, could be said to be too spoiled. Henry, the eldest of the two, was an active sportsman and a competent debater; Arthur possessed a keen eye for observations and an all-round good humour; together, they kept boredom at bay.

The first week in London afforded Arthur with an interesting encounter. He had struck up a conversation with one of the clerks who worked for Henry Knightley and had discovered a curious thing. The clerk was an uncomely youth but well read in poetry that led to the conclusion was that the young man was entirely misplaced; he should not be working as an insignificant little clerk in London, but heralded by literary societies as a rare gem. Arthur found something else more striking about Knightley's clerk. The latter's name was John Hartright, and he was the sickly naval officer involved in the accident at the Copperflute Inn, and who had received the assistance of Arthur's father. Hartright was happy to make Arthur's acquaintance.

"I have still the handkerchief that Miss Somerset lended me," said Hartright. "I have it in my rooms. I could fetch it for you tomorrow."

Arthur started. "You must mean my friend Miss Collins," Arthur corrected Hartright. "Franny is not my sister. She is my stepmother's niece."

"Oh, I beg your pardon. Will you help me return it?"

Arthur agreed that he would next time he visited the Collins.

Aside from that unexpected meeting, over the course of the first week, Arthur and Henry Knightley passed nights at the theatre, one at the opera, and four at the gentlemen's club.

"Truth of the matter is," said Henry, recovering from a headache one night, "I am expected down in the country in August-" (It was still July when Arthur arrived in London) "-and you know how it is with Father since he retired. It would please him if I finished the last bit of work before I go."

"Of course you must not let me distract you from your case," said Arthur quickly. "You know I'd never want to come in between you and your work."

"Thanks, old chap." Henry yawned as he pulled a heavy volume out from under the divan. "It isn't a formal case, but I would like to do what I can before I set off for Surrey." He cast he friend a wry smile. "Besides, it isn't only my father's expectations that I have to worry about. You know how it will be once I'm down at Hartfield. I'll never have my wits about me once I am there."

Yes, Arthur understood. "Miss Weston, you mean?" he asked teasingly, thinking of the way the said Miss Weston transformed his assertive, confident friend into a clumsy, inarticulate schoolboy. "You're going to frighten the poor girl away with your ardour and admiration."

"I should hope not! She is a sweet little thing."

"You won't, of course, tell her exactly that," said Arthur seriously. "I am sure she would not want to be thought of merely as an object, however much she welcomes your attention."

"Why should she not like to hear it? Any young lady would."

"I doubt that very much, Henry."

Henry cast his friend an inquisitive look. "You sound certain of yourself in that respect. Am I to guess that you have had the misfortune of being rejected on those very grounds?"

"You know that was not so with Miss Thorpe."

"No, I mean, have you made another offer?"

"To that same wretch?"

"No," said Henry impatiently, "Of course I don't mean her. I mean, have you made an offer to another woman?"

Arthur hesitated. "You know I have no one in mind."

"Oh, I don't know that. As a lawyer, I don't ever know anything for a certainty, though I can surmise. Mostly, it doesn't matter what I see is the truth. In the court, I have to trust what my client tells me. If you say you have no one in mind, I suppose I will have to believe you."

"Am I before a magistrate already?" asked Arthur with a laugh. "I always thought the intimate confessions were best reserved for the ladies."

"So you won't let your old friend pry," said Henry briskly. "Very well, Arthur. You win."

"Case is closed, then, I presume... What have you got in that big volume?" Arthur nodded at the book in Henry's hand.

"Famous and Infamous: A Lucid Account of the Jewels of India researched by a certain Mr. Smythe. I am trying to learn as much as I can concerning diamonds."

Arthur leaned forward in interest. "Have you begun to read it?"

"What do you take me for, man?" Henry laughed. "No, of course, I have not. I have merely glanced through its content. There is not much in it that will be of any help to me, as lucid as the writing is. How unfortunate, for it was a jolly expensive volume. The book seller assured me it was of superb scholarship, but I have not been able to find a single word above five syllables in the text."

"Has it anything to do with your case?"

"Excellent observation. Yes, as a matter of fact, it does."

"Do you care to share any of it?"

"You know cases are absolutely confidential."

"You have already acknowledged that diamonds are involved."

Henry sighed and passed the book into Arthur's hands. "Turn to page 149."

Arthur did as his friend commanded.

"Read it, the second paragraph."

Arthur did:

No accounts have ever been found of a magnificent green diamond resembling the size of the 'Peacock,' but the Green Holland diamond is conjectured by some to be a part of it. Once believed to be an Indian stone, the fact that it was formerly in the hands of a Dutch merchant before being purchased by a nobleman of the House of Orange, seems to indicate that the Green Holland may have Brazilian, and not Indian, origins. The stone is a pale green diamond of pear cut of fifty carats. The fame of the Dutch Green is apparent, for diamonds of such colour are in nature quite rare; the appearance of green is often quite light in a diamond, and nothing more than a tinting of the surface by certain impurities of nature which, in a properly cut gem, will suffuse across the entire stone, thus creating the sense of uniformity and purity of colour. While common green diamonds are not in general well favoured by the trade, fancies with the clarity and iridescence of the Green Holland are always considered a worthy gem. If the Green Holland is in fact a part of the ancient Peacock stone, several equally valuable counterparts of this Dutch royal gem are expected to be in existence. At least one report of a similar stone was recorded as looted at Aboukir Bay in 1798, but there is no evidence of either this event or the stone involved in the alleged theft.

Arthur's interest was immediate. "Does your client have the counterpart of the Green Holland?"

"No, and that is exactly the reason for his coming." Henry sighed. "He pawned it."

"Rather foolishly!" exclaimed Arthur.

"Not entirely-"

"Do you mean to say that he unwittingly pawned a diamond of fifty carats?"

"No. He claims it was a hundred carats."

"Regardless of it being fifty or a hundred, if he did not pawn it in an absence of wit, then he must have pawned it with his wits about him. I call that foolish."

"Don't be hasty to judge," Henry warned. "He was convinced that he had been tricked. He hadn't pawned it himself. His friend did it for him."

"Worse and worse," said Arthur drily. "I suppose next you will say that it was an honest fellow who cheated him."

"I fear that may be the case exactly."

"But a diamond! If it was a diamond. Why did he pawn it if it was so dear to him? To think, a master of a diamond can be in such dire constraints as to require further finances! You and I know that if one can have the good fortune of possessing a diamond, one's living cannot be all too humble."

Henry sighed. "He was in poor health. He needed to pay his doctor's bills. It was an unfortunate business. In fact, he was so ill, he had to withdraw from his post in the navy. Without the diamond's assistance, he was not what one could call, by any stretch of the imagination, solvent."

"He has no means of support still?"

"Not exactly..." said Henry with a sheepish smile. "There is his recent clerkship."

"Are you telling me that he is one of your clerks?" Arthur paused. "It is not Mr. Hartright, is it?"

"I always said you ought to be an inspector of the Scotland Yard," answered Henry, shaking his head. "Now that I can no longer keep you in the dark, I find myself in the most uncomfortable situation."

"It need not be uncomfortable if you would only feed my curiosity."

"Very well. I will tell you a bit of his case-but only if you swear upon your honour that you will not reveal a word of it to others. You know that confidentiality is crucial to any case."

Arthur promised solemnly.

"Let me start from the beginning. Hartright's parents have long passed away. His father was an American who had decided to become an Englishman, but who had eventually returned to America in his last years. His mother was an Englishwoman who had very particular notions of remaining here, on English soil all her life. They seemed to have descended from an old stock of knights and baronets, but the Hartrights were not rich."

"His background, at least, is quite respectable," commented Arthur. "My grandfather was merely a merchant who married a woman of the gentry. It was not until my great-uncle passed away that my family became what one would call 'genteel'. In any case, you know, it is all a state of mind whether one chooses to be well bred or not. It is not a matter that can be settled by birthright."

"Hartright would be proud to hear that from a man such a yourself. He loathes the implication of 'birthright.'"

"I fear to divine what he thinks of us. We are both the products of our fathers' diligence."

Henry frowned.

"Oh yes, I am quite serious," said Arthur. "Like you, it is not at all how I should like to spend my life. I certainly do not wish to earn my bread by 'birthright.' But then, for my sentiments, I have been labelled indolent and extravagant." He thought particularly of Mrs. Collins as he said this.

"I never could understand your objection against taking over the mill from your father."

"Only think of cotton, my dear Knightley. I would not be here before you today if it were not for those plantations, and such a reality irritates me," said Arthur. "I dislike immensely the fact that the living that I am to receive depends on a trade which England herself has now denounced. But there-I must not enter into a discussion of politics if we are to remain friends. I will only alienate you in that way."

Henry smiled. "I am not so easily offended."

"But I fear I may be." Arthur reverted to the previous subject. "What were you about to say before I interrupted you?"

"Ah, yes, of course. Hartright sold and pawned what he could to pay his parents' creditors. The only things that did not go at first were his late mother's jewels. Eventually, he had to take those to sell as well. He received enough in return to set himself up in the navy. However, if you are at all familiar with the navy, Somerset, you will know that most men enter the career at a very young age. He was not a boy when he joined. He had to depend on his friend, who was a high-ranked officer."

"And his friend's name was?"

"It isn't important to you."

"Still, I would like to know it, for the story's sake. I can feel it in my bones that there is something in this that is crucial to the sense of the story. Upon my honour, you can trust me."

Henry relented. "The officer's name was Denny. Actually, it was a rather grand name for any Englishman: Wellington Horatio Denny."

Of course, when Arthur had entreated Henry for the name, he had only meant it half in jest, but now, Henry's answer rang in Arthur's ears. The Dennys of Hunsford-Franny-her love of military history-

"According to Hartright, his friend was an intelligent man who would help him with his adjustment, aid him in his finances, be a good comrade for the most part. But he failed Hartright in one event."

Arthur could not hide his interest now. "Go on," he urged, when his friend paused for a drink.

Henry put his glass down. "Well, the event concerned the last piece of his mother's jewels. Hartright had been taken very ill with pneumonia. The pendant was the only means of paying for his doctor's bills. He asked Denny to take care of the matter for him. Denny had the jewelry pawned, assuring Hartright that there be a chance to redeem the jewel within a year's time, provided Hartright had the fees to pay by then. Hartright felt no reason not to believe Denny. He entrusted the necklace to Denny, and the latter returned afterwards with a few hundred pounds. Hartright owns that he was surprised it fetched so little-it was a large, clear green stone, which his mother had always treasured it with the utmost care. Yet, he still felt no reason to distrust his friend and he thanked Denny for his service."

"Foolish man," muttered Arthur.

"Hartright discovered the following year that it was no service his friend had rendered him. When Hartright returned to the pawnbroker, he discovered that the pendant had been pawned in exchange for a much larger sum-a sum of one thousand pounds-and that it had already been redeemed. Hartright's shock was instant. He has since alleged that Denny sold it for a thousand pounds, given Hartright only two hundred, and later bought the diamond back for himself. Angered by the fraud, Hartright spoke to Denny. Denny denied the charges and denied he had the pendant. For his pains, Hartright was reassigned to the ship of an admiral named William Price. He remained in his new post until he was too weak to work. Thus far, I have spoken to Admiral Price, and have found nothing in those quarters to assist me in the investigation. He believes wholeheartedly in both men and cannot believe that one is good and the other false."

"Have you spoken to Denny?"

"Yes, but only twice, by letter. He seems to be eluding me."

"Ah-a definite sign of guilt."

"Perhaps. He is on leave for the summer. I may not be able to track him until he returns to service in the fall."

"And do you believe that he-that this man, Denny, cheated your clerk?"

"I am trying to find out. Hartright adamantly believes it. He believes that his heirloom has been cut up and sold because he has heard no news of a one hundred carat green diamond anywhere in Great Britain or Europe. But he did not feel strong enough to bring the law against his former friend."

Arthur thought long and hard. "Hartright did not have to entrust his jewel to Denny; for his weakness of judgement, much of the fault still lies with him. I also cannot understand why a diamond-as you deem it to be-would fetch as little as a thousand pounds. It sounds most curious." Rather similar to the price he himself had paid for his pendant, Arthur thought to himself.

Henry nodded. "He does not deny his foolishness. He offers me this explanation. Hartright had never thought that diamonds could be green, so he supposed that it was an emerald. Denny convinced him that it could be not be an emerald, as it was not dark enough to be one. The pawnbroker assured him that it was rock crystal, treated with colour. I can hardly tell, never having seen the thing, but Hartright's description of it seems to match the description of the Green Holland."

"He may very well have read that passage before describing his lost jewel to you," Arthur pointed out.

"Yes, he could have."

"But you do not think so," finished Arthur. "...Well, suppose I told you that I too have something that matches the description of the Green Holland-That assertion would hardly signify that mine is the counterpart, or that in fact, I even possess a part of the gem."

This time, it was Henry who was stunned. "Pardon me? Are you telling me that you have one like it?"

"I believe so, but mine is considerably less than a hundred carats." Arthur described the appearance of the necklace as thoroughly as he could, including the minuscule flaw at its heart, which Henry Knightley informed him was also present in Hartright's heirloom. As he went on, Arthur began to feel increasingly ill at ease. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him: suppose Hartright's lost pendant was the origins of the very same jewel now in Arthur's possession? The same mistake made over the material of the pendant, whether it was quartz or diamond, was most uncanny. What fortune was this, to have brought owner and owner of the same treasure together?

"Have you the diamond now?" asked Henry.

Arthur answered that he had it in the country, under the safekeeping of his stepmother. And then, the feeling intrinsic to the human condition surfaced within him- Suspicion. Was it true what Hartright had said concerning Denny, or was it inadmissible hearsay? Was Henry right in trusting the claims of a poor clerk?

"And you say that it is not a hundred carats?" asked Henry.

Arthur shook his head. "I would say that it was only forty, perhaps fifty at the most, and yet, I suppose that is still a considerable mass."

Henry at once advised him to write to Mrs. Somerset and to go home and ensure that it was under proper security.

"Accept my advice as a friend, if not as a lawyer," said Henry solemnly. "It is hardly safe in your father's home, or anywhere in Blackburn, for that matter. You must understand why."

"My family is down in Taunton this summer."

"Still, I do not think Taunton is safer than the most secure bank of London."

"Do you suggest that I bring it to London? Are you not afraid I may be attacked by highwaymen along the way?"

"This is no laughing matter, my friend."

Arthur chose to be wise and listened to Henry. He sat down to write a letter to Mrs. Somerset, asking her whether it was possible for her to prepare for his arrival home, and most of all, to keep the pendant secret and safe.

Some days later, Arthur received a letter of admonishment instead of welcome from his stepmother. Mrs. Somerset replied that she had given the diamond to Franny because she thought it had been Arthur's wish. Arthur was shocked. For the last several months, he had deceived himself in thinking that the necklace was safely guarded by Mrs. Somerset. Now, his stepmother was cross because she thought he was "retracting his hopes and promise." If Mrs. Somerset's disappointment was great, Arthur need not guess what Franny's would be. He could not ask Franny to return the thing now that it was given. Or could he? Why should he worry over her feelings? What was the poor girl to him but a little cousin, an affectionate little friend? And yet, he felt his conscience deeply in all his conduct concerning her.

There was also the question of the green diamond. Left unguarded at the parsonage of Hunsford, under the care of Franny Collins, it sounded no safer to him than it would be to leave the gem lying in an open field.

"By God," Arthur breathed in disbelief, "What mischief has been done?"

Henry Knightley advised Arthur not to say a word concerning the diamond to Hartright. "But you had better see to your cousin," said Henry. "Will she not be surprised."

"And if it is the same diamond, or part of the same diamond, that Hartright seeks?"

"Then we must establish the true ownership of the diamond. Then we must find Denny. I fear there may not be much else I can do. If we can employ some form of intimidation. However, if Denny will not relent, we shall never find the jeweler whom he hired to cut the diamond, and Hartright will have lost his heirloom forever while your cousin cherishes your gift."

"Should it be established that the diamond was Hartright's own..."

"Your cousin Miss Collins will have a difficult choice to make. She must choose between keeping what is now hers or giving up what was not."

Arthur was grim. The innocence or guilt of one man--Lieutenant-Commander Denny--was at the centre of the puzzle. It would be heavenly to prove that Denny was innocent, for then, no one would feel obliged to ask Franny to give up the diamond; and yet, Arthur knew that it would satiate a strange appetite within him to prove that naval heroes like Lieutenant-Commander Denny were not all faultless. "Do you know," he said at last, "I think you had better come with me to Kent. There is someone there who will be invaluable to your investigation. I am thinking of my cousin's friend, Mrs. Denny. She ought to know much about her brother-in-law."

"You are acquainted with the Dennys? Why did you not tell me?"

"I have only met Mr. and Mrs. John Denny, not their brother the Lieutenant-Commander. However, I do think..."

"You think right. That's good enough for me, Arthur, quite good enough. I suppose I must go to Kent before I return to Surrey. Indeed, Kent must not wait."

Chapter 18 (part i)

Posted On: Friday, 6 September 2002, at 11:47 a.m.

Franny had been quite surprised when her mother suddenly announced, whilst in the middle of cleaning the spare room, that Arthur Somerset was coming to Hunsford. Entreaties would not move her mother to say anything more than the fact that Arthur was finishing up some business for his father in London, and that before he joined his family, he would come down to Kent to visit them.

Mrs. Collins' opinion of the young man still had not changed, but she knew that to not receive Arthur would be to insult her sister, who doted so much on Arthur. Charlotte Collins was one who liked to observe decorum and preserve sibling harmony, and if Mrs. Somerset was to be pleased, Arthur would have to be welcomed warmly, regardless of Mrs. Collins' complaints against him.

"Is he in town?" asked Franny. "He never said a word."

"You have not been corresponding with him, have you?" asked Mrs. Collins, who was giving the windows a good wipe.

"No, of course I have not been. I meant that Aunt Maria never said a word of Arthur visiting." Franny grew warm, indignant at the suggestion. She had vowed that she would not tender any affections for Arthur other than that which she owed to a cousin; she had not been entirely successful, but at least she had taken no actions to inflame the matter. In other words, she had not exchanged correspondence with Arthur, though she accepted his gift on her birthday.

"He will be staying at the parsonage," said Mrs. Collins. She acknowledged the awkwardness of the arrangement. "I am no more anxious to receive him for the rest of the summer than you must be; it will prove to be somewhat unusual to have Mr. Somerset's son here daily with us, but I will welcome him as Maria welcomes him, and you will treat him with sisterly affections."

"Yes, Mother."

Mrs. Collins appeared to be satisfied. "Out of sight, out of mind," she told herself during the silence that ensued.

Though Arthur seemed to be industrious now, Mrs. Collins' objections against his "lack of seriousness" still stood. Now, Lieutenant-Commander Denny was a little different. Everyone said that the lieutenant-commander had seen hardship during his life at sea, and that his honourable character together with his experience and intellect promised for him a bright career and many more promotions. This was a thing that Mrs. Collins liked to hear.

"I do not suppose that Lieutenant-Commander Denny has returned from Tunbridge Wells, has he?" asked Mrs. Collins as she and her daughter began to clean the spare room in preparation for the arrival of their guest. "You did say that he had gone with his brother to Tunbridge Wells?"

"What an unusual question to ask," said Franny evasively, giving the new pillows a good fluffing. "I was quite sure that we were talking about Arthur."

"Merely curiosity, my dear," said Mrs. Collins. "The lieutenant-commander has been away for nearly a week now, has he not? The summer is soon coming to a close. Will he come back one more time before he leaves?"

"Yes, but hardly for long. I expect he will be joining his friends and fellow officers soon at Deal," replied Franny. "Mrs. Denny tells me that he is eager to be close to the sea again."

"Of course, a man must show more than a common interest in his career if he is to sustain a living for himself and his future wife and children."

"Perhaps, but in his case, one might also call it a want of steadfastness," said Franny, repeating her mother's own words. "If he cannot settle quietly for the space of a month in one place alone without the need to seek diversion elsewhere, I would think very hard about his want of constancy."

"Franny, we cannot judge others in such a way."

"I am merely making a general observation." Franny tucked in the ends of the fresh bed linen. "After all, one cannot be too sure with gentlemen now. They are always wishing for some form of amusement. You say that such is at least the case with Arthur."

Mrs. Collins shook her head. "Franny, you are mocking me for my sentiments. I know I am right in such matters. And as for Lieutenant-Commander Denny, I do not think he fits in the category of men who lives only for self-gratification."

"Nor do I think so of Arthur, and we have known him longer."

Mrs. Collins sighed. "You may speak as you like, but nothing shall convince me until I see proof of my error."

"I do not intend to prove one of us right and the other wrong," said Franny. "I only think that...we must not judge Lieutenant-Commander Denny according to his distinctions when we are so quick to judge Arthur by his faults."

"The lieutenant-commander is of twice the consequence of Arthur. Remember who is truly independent and who is not."

"If independence were the gauge of every person's character, no one in England would be considered admirable. We are each of us sprung from our initial dependence on others."

"That is a lot of nonsense," said Mrs. Collins dismissively. "Your grandfather raised himself without any assistance."

"But what of Mr. Bennet and Mr. Darcy? By your scale, they would not be very fine gentlemen."

"Sometimes, exceptions may prove the rule. In any case, you cannot deny that Lieutenant-Commander Denny earned his own independence. He relied on no one but himself."

Franny floundered for a bit. "Still, I do not think that is an immediate recommendation of his character. Certainly, to be born into a situation does not diminish a person's goodness against one who earned one's situation. I am sure that luck had much to do with Lieutenant-Commander Denny's rise."

"Only the wise will make good use of good fortune."

Franny sighed. "Where is Father?" she asked, as she saw there would be no winning over her mother. "I have hardly seen him today."

"I suggested last night that perhaps he might tend the bee hives and he quite agreed with me."

"Did he mention honey for Lady Catherine? I hope Lady Catherine will be flattered."

Mrs. Collins looked at Franny. "Why do you say that?"

"It is quite obvious that you intended Father to offer some of the fruits of his labour to his patroness her ladyship. It is always the case with such things."

"I thought it would be easier to clean the parsonage without him sitting indoors," corrected Mrs. Collins. "Franny, I do hope you are not intending to disagree with me on every subject."

"You know I do not, Mother."

Mrs. Collins looked at her daughter and thought of how independent in spirit Franny was beginning to be. "Is it obstinance?" Mrs. Collins asked herself. "Or impudence? I was never like that against my mother, and yet, Franny has suffered no influence from Mr. Somerset's son these last six months." For once, Charlotte Collins felt herself lose control of the things around her, and she even began to question the credibility of an incessantly practical mind.

The "discretion" of Reverend William Collins had allowed Lady Catherine to discover exactly the day of Arthur's arrival in Hunsford, and her ladyship laid her first claims to have the young man at her dinner table before anyone else's. Mr. Collins was vexed, for he was rather fond of his nephew and had hoped to covet the presence of the young man on his first day back in Kent. Still, Mr. Collins was able to overcome his disappointment when Lady Catherine extended the invitation to the Collins.

"I would like to have Mrs. Collins near at hand," her ladyship had commanded. "She is always sound in judgement and will be a good influence on Anne. Of course, you and Frances Maria may also come."

The day before Arthur's arrival, Hunsford Parsonage was a silent monument to the grandiloquence and magniloquence that was brewing within its four gray walls. The most Reverend Mr. William Collins in his best clergyman's attire (a study of solemn black against blinding white) was working on his best clergyman's behaviour. He had taken extra pride in his locks of brown hair, which he had carefully brushed over a sensitive spot; but for that slight aberration, his hair had all the appearance of fullness. Of course, nothing worked so well as Lowgand's Hair Oil, but Mr. Collins was a humble clergyman who never boasted about his patronage of that prodigiously exorbitant product.

Mr. Collins was taking special care of himself because it was the last Sunday before Arthur's visit. This Sunday was therefore more than a special occasion for him.

(Of course, Mr. Collins looked forward to every Sunday because he had the chance not only to Serve, but to be The Voice on that pulpit overlooking his congregation of eager, god-fearing parishioners. How many times had he observed those fervent listeners who watched him with eyes glazed over in religious zeal, whose heads nodded at every sentence, whose mouths dared not interrupt his. There were, he gravely admitted, one or two disappointments in each pew, but then, his duty was not to judge so much as it was to administer the Word. And so, after service, he always had a word with those black sheeps in the flock. Those admonished were meek and repentent, for they bowed their heads and looked down at their feet in shame. Others rolled their eyes to heaven in silent prayer, hoping that their Lord would forgive them directly for their offense. Still others were too mortified by their sinfulness to be confronted by their laudable rector and left the church in haste; the next Sunday, Mr. Collins often told himself, would undoubtedly see an improvement.)

Because Arthur Somerset would not arrive in time to attend the service, Mr. Collins wanted to make sure that he reserved something useful and sagacious to relate to his nephew afterwards. It was not every day that a fellow Oxford man of the family could come to wait on him, and certainly not every day that Mr. Collins had some fresh new youth to speak words of wisdom to. Thus, the atmosphere of Hunsford Parsonage became a testimony of the elocutionist's dedication.

"Which shall it be?" Mr. Collins asked himself aloud. "I must find a passage that he will find most applicable to his travels and studies."

"Who is 'he', Father?" Franny asked Mr. Collins.

"Your cousin, of course," replied the reverend in amazement. "I wonder that you need to ask, my child."

"He will be very tired when he reaches Hunsford. He may not wish to study sermons and readings immediately upon his arrival."

"Franny, you do not understand that a gentleman needs such little reminders of good Christian conduct. The least I can do for Arthur is to impart some of my wisdom of the world to him, so that when he leaves this place, he may feel that he is armed and ready to conquer what ever obstacle he may come across in his journey. His will shall be strong and his flesh shall never be weak."

"That is hardly fair-you make Arthur out to be some sort of.... heir to debauchery," exclaimed Franny.

"Frances Maria!" exclaimed Mr. Collins in shock. "Mind your expression, young lady. You are far too outspoken. I had hoped that no child of mine would speak with such indiscretion and insensibility towards the power of the Word."

Franny apologized meekly for her offense in order to satisfy her father.

"Now, I think I will settle on this passage," said Mr. Collins, resuming his work. "This passage will do you very good: '...for everyone who exalts himself shall be humbled but he who humbles himself shall be exalted.' Or perhaps this one: 'Do nothing from selfishness or empty conceit, but with humility of mind let each of you regard one another as more important than himself.' I do like this last one. My dearest Charlotte, which do you like more?"

"I trust that choice to you," Mrs. Collins replied. "Perhaps you may also consider this for Arthur: 'He who tills his land will have plenty of food, but he who follows empty pursuits will have poverty in plenty.'"

Mr. Collins nodded solemnly.

"'As in water, face reflects face, so the heart of man reflects man,'" Franny read over her father's shoulder. "I like this one. It has music in its lines, and substance in its words."

"Every word of scripture has substance, Franny... Have you prepared for your review? Remember I have asked you to read ten pages from Fordyce's Sermons for tomorrow morning. Have you prepared for that yet, child?"

Franny shook her head and meekly left the room.

Luckily for Franny, the next day arrived and Mr. Collins forgot all about examining his daughter. Arthur's arrival presente