Chapter 2 #2
“I see,” said Mr. Bennet, glancing towards a small shelf in the corner, “that you have not wholly abandoned your former inclinations.”
William colored slightly. “No, sir. I read when I can.”
“And what do you read?”
The lad hesitated—not from ignorance, but from that caution bred in those who have learned that knowledge is sometimes mistaken for presumption.
“Whatever I may borrow,” he said at last. “History, chiefly. Some divinity. Latin, when I can obtain it.”
Mr. Bennet’s brow lifted—not in surprise, but in quiet recalculation.
“Who directs your studies?”
William’s answer was given without complaint. “No one in particular, sir. The clergyman here allows me the use of some books, and corrects me when he has leisure. But he has many calls.”
“And your father?”
At this, William’s eyes lowered—not in resentment, but in resignation.
“My father,” he said, after a moment, “has little leisure for such matters. Nor inclination, if I may say so.”
Mr. Bennet did not pursue the subject further; for there are truths which, once admitted, require no elaboration. Instead, he rose, walked a little about the room, and then seated himself again, as if the matter had been settled inwardly, though not yet declared.
“You are sixteen, I believe?”
“Almost seventeen, sir.”
“And you wish to enter the Church?”
William’s reply was immediate. “Yes—if such a course should be open to me.”
Not eagerness, not ambition, but steadiness marked the words. Mr. Bennet regarded him more closely than before; for though professions are easily made, they are seldom so simply delivered.
“You understand,” he said, “that the Church offers no certain fortune?”
“I do, sir.”
“And that it demands patience, discipline, and restraint?”
The lad looked his visitor in the eye. “I am accustomed to those, sir.”
Mr. Bennet smiled—not ironically, but with a brief, thoughtful gravity.
“I believe you are, my lad.”
When Mr. Bennet rose to leave the room, it was with the air of a man who has concluded an examination without yet pronouncing judgment.
“I came here,” he said, with deliberate calm, “at the request of your mother’s solicitor, Mr. Jennings. I suppose you know him, or have at least heard of him.”
“Yes, sir. Everyone in the town knows Mr. Jennings. He is a stern man, but an honest one. His office is three streets from here, towards the harbor.”
“Very well. Thank you. I shall go and speak with him. I believe your honorable mother entrusted me with certain responsibilities concerning your future. I promise you that we shall speak again, and that I shall endeavor not to disappoint her trust.”
“That is very kind of you, sir.” William hesitated, then added, with careful propriety, “Would you wish me to prepare a room for you? Since my mother’s death, we have several chambers unoccupied; my father has little tact, and is often unnecessarily sharp with the customers.”
“I understand,” said Mr. Bennet quietly. “And he drinks more than formerly, I should imagine. Very well. I shall take a room here for two days.”
William said nothing further; and when he conducted Mr. Bennet back towards the front of the house, he resumed his place and duties without ostentation, as if nothing had passed beyond the ordinary exchange of civility.
It was evident that Mr. Bennet would not quit Portsmouth the following morning, as Mrs. Bennet had confidently expected; nor would he spend his remaining hours observing Richard Collins’s habits with a severity that could answer no useful purpose. Instead, he applied himself quietly to enquiry.
***
Mr. Bennet entered a narrow outer room, plainly furnished but in constant use, where papers were stacked in careful disorder upon every available surface, and the scratching of pens rose and fell like the sound of industrious insects.
A man of middle years looked up at his entrance, rose at once, and came forward with an air of brisk civility.
“Good day, sir. Mr. Jennings is engaged just now, but I am at your service, if I may be of any use. Cobb—Thomas Cobb,” he added, with a small bow that managed to be respectful without ceremony.
Mr. Bennet returned it. “Mr. Bennet, of Longbourn. I was advised that I might find Mr. Jennings here.”
“You will, sir—presently,” Mr. Cobb replied with a smile that suggested this was a promise made daily and redeemed as often as circumstances allowed.
“He is with a client whose affairs admit of neither brevity nor interruption. If you will excuse the confusion—” He gestured vaguely at the papers. “—we are rather pressed at present.”
“So I perceive,” said Mr. Bennet, glancing about him with mild interest. “One might suppose the law a quiet profession, if one did not step inside its offices.”
Mr. Cobb laughed softly. “That illusion is best preserved from a distance. Up close, it is all deadlines and documents, sir—documents that must be copied twice, sometimes thrice, and never quickly enough to satisfy those who wait upon them.”
Mr. Bennet’s brow lifted slightly. “You speak as one overburdened.”
“Habitually,” Mr. Cobb answered without complaint. “We are fortunate in business, which is to say, unfortunate in leisure. I do not complain—only state the fact.”
Mr. Bennet seated himself upon the offered chair. “I shall not trouble you long. I wished only to make a general enquiry, and as you appear to be the person most immediately acquainted with the workings of this office, I hope you will indulge me.”
“I shall do my best, sir.”
“It occurred to me,” Mr. Bennet began, with studied ease, “that a young person, properly disposed and tolerably educated, might be of some service here—as a copyist, perhaps. I do not speak of anything advanced, merely of assistance in the mechanical part of the work.”
Mr. Cobb stared at him for a moment, then let out a short breath that was almost a laugh.
“Of help?” he repeated. “Sir, it would be nothing short of a miracle.”
Mr. Bennet smiled faintly. “That great a need?”
“That great, and greater,” Mr. Cobb replied readily, warming to the subject.
“If I had a boy who could read a hand without despair, copy without invention, and keep his ink off the margins, I would count him a treasure. At present, every letter, every deed, every abstract must pass under the same few pens, and the day ends long before the work does.”
“And an apprentice,” Mr. Bennet ventured, “would not be thought an encumbrance?”
“An apprentice who required constant correction—yes,” said Mr. Cobb frankly.
“But one who could be trusted with fair copying, even under supervision, would lighten our labors considerably. It is the copying that consumes us, sir, not the judgment. Judgment belongs to Mr. Jennings, and he is both thorough and exacting. The rest is patience and legible handwriting.”
Mr. Bennet considered this. “And instruction? Would there be opportunity for a boy to learn, as well as to serve?”
Mr. Cobb nodded at once. “If he were willing, and steady, and not offended by repetition. He would learn more law from copying a single brief properly than from hearing ten lectures badly delivered. And,” he added, with a glance toward the inner door, “Mr. Jennings is an employer who values diligence. He notices those who save him time.”
“That is a rare virtue in any profession,” Mr. Bennet observed.
“Rare, but not unrewarded,” Mr. Cobb agreed. “I began here with little more than a decent hand and a willingness to stay after hours. I have not regretted it.”
Mr. Bennet rose. “You have answered my enquiry very fully, Mr. Cobb. I am obliged to you.”
“If Mr. Jennings is inclined to receive you,” Mr. Cobb said, rising also, “I believe you will find him receptive to any proposal that reduces the number of papers upon his desk. And if you have a boy in mind—” He hesitated, then smiled.
“—I should be glad to see him spared the inn-yard, if he has the temper for better things.”
Mr. Bennet met his look steadily. “That remains to be seen. But I thank you for your candor.”
“You are very welcome, sir.”
At that moment, the inner door opened, and a gentleman of sober dress and businesslike countenance emerged, still engaged in low-voiced conversation with Mr. Jennings.
Brief courtesies were exchanged; hats were lifted; the client took his leave with visible relief.
Mr. Jennings’s voice was heard, firm but courteous, dismissing him at last.
Mr. Cobb stepped aside at once.
“That will be Mr. Jennings now. If you will permit me, I shall announce you.”
Mr. Bennet inclined his head, his thoughts already moving beyond the room, beyond the conversation—toward a path not yet shaped.
The office into which Mr. Bennet was then introduced lay not far from the quay, yet was sufficiently withdrawn from it to reduce the ceaseless clamor of Portsmouth to a distant and tolerable murmur.
The air bore that familiar mingling of dust, ink, and well-handled paper which belongs to places where business is conducted with deliberation rather than haste.
The apartment was furnished with unassuming propriety: a high desk polished by years of use, a tall stool drawn close beside it, shelves crowded with ledgers and bundles secured by red tape, and a single window admitting a generous supply of light, though offering little in the way of prospect.
Mr. Jennings advanced immediately upon Mr. Bennet’s entrance.
“Mr. Bennet,” he said, with a bow that conveyed gravity without stiffness or undue familiarity, “I am deeply obliged to you for attending with such promptitude. Your journey from Hertfordshire cannot have been altogether agreeable.”
“It was tolerable enough,” replied Mr. Bennet, accepting the chair that was courteously offered. “Your letter conveyed a sense of urgency, as though any postponement might prove inconvenient.”
“In the present case,” returned the solicitor, resuming his seat with composed exactness, “delay would indeed have been most ill-advised.”