Chapter 2 #7
Richard Collins nodded once, the gesture heavy with unspoken feeling. He offered no further counsel, no exhortation, and no blessing expressed in flowing words—and that silence, from such a man, was more decisive than any eloquence.
“There is one thing more,” Richard added, after a pause in which he cleared his throat, not entirely at ease with the concession he was about to make.
“Ask your friend James Cox to come to the inn today.” He shifted his weight, gazing briefly toward the window as though the words cost him something.
“If he is willing to take your place here, I can offer him ten shillings a month, two square meals daily—for himself, and something besides to carry home to his brothers.”
William’s careful restraint gave way at last. His breath caught audibly; his composure faltered, and without reflection—almost without knowing that he did so—he stepped forward and embraced his father briefly but fiercely.
Richard stood stiffly for a moment, wholly taken by surprise by this unaccustomed display, then laid one large, work-roughened hand—awkwardly, but not unwillingly—upon the boy’s narrow shoulder.
“I shall fetch him at once, Father,” William said, his voice unsteady with feeling he could no longer quite contain. “I do not know how to thank you.” And before his father could frame any reply, he was gone.
A short while later, William returned with James Cox in tow, the latter’s thin face betraying astonishment at his own sudden good fortune scarcely concealed beneath a wary gratitude.
The matter was explained to him plainly; the terms were stated without flourish or false promise; and James, after one searching look at the sober faces before him, accepted them with a quiet gratitude rather than any triumphant air.
The business concluded, William gathered his coat and cap and stepped out into the street, where Mr. Bennet’s carriage waited.
The gentleman was seated within with his customary composure.
No explanation was required between them; the boy had already been told enough to comprehend the purpose of their errand through the town, and he mounted the step and took his place beside his benefactor without hesitation or backward glance.
Mr. Bennet regarded him steadily for a moment—not measuring eagerness or trepidation, but simple readiness.
“You understand what lies before you, William?” he asked at last, his tone even and devoid of undue solemnity.
“Yes, sir.”
“It will require steady application,” Mr. Bennet continued, “patience with your own deficiencies, and a willingness to begin anew where your schooling has been imperfect or interrupted.”
“I am willing, sir,” William replied, without haste and without bravado, meeting his benefactor’s gaze with quiet resolution.
Mr. Bennet inclined his head in acknowledgement. “That,” he said simply, “is all I require.”
And thus, without further formality or display, the boy was committed to his new charge as a trust solemnly undertaken.
And thus, without further formality or display, the boy was committed to his new charge, not as a favor bestowed, but as a trust deliberately undertaken.
“Their first stop was Mr. Jennings’s office, where William was at once set a simple trial of writing.
He copied a short legal notice under observation, his hand steady, his attention exact; and before the ink was dry, both the solicitor and Mr. Cobb exchanged looks of undisguised satisfaction.
The boy’s pen moved without haste or flourish, but with a care and legibility that spoke of habit rather than accident.
“You can write slowly and hesitantly, yet beautifully; or you can write a fair page in minutes rather than hours, Mr. Collins,” Mr. Jennings declared, delivering his judgment with professional emphasis.
“The essential point is not speed for its own sake, but correctness without waste of time. That, young man, we shall see to.”
The necessary papers were then signed with dispatch, Mr. Jennings greeting the conclusion of the business with his customary measured courtesy and expressing a quiet confidence that the arrangement would answer well.
Mr. Cobb, for his part, could scarcely conceal his eagerness, and spoke already of exercises to be begun and improvements to be made, as though the first lesson could not be commenced soon enough.
From thence they proceeded to the parish rooms adjoining St. Thomas à Becket, where Father Hartley received them in the vestry with unaffected kindness and the calm cordiality of one accustomed to quiet duties rather than display.
The clergyman, long acquainted with William and already concerned for his improvement, expressed his approval of the arrangement as the fulfilment rather than the alteration of hopes he had himself entertained for some time.
Mr. Aldridge, a capable scholar and retired clergyman, long engaged in instruction and still warmly devoted to learning, was therefore introduced without delay.
The good man greeted the company with courtesy, regarded William with encouraging warmth, and examined him briefly but attentively with an experienced eye, engaging him in a few short exchanges of Latin and English, by which he assessed both the lad’s attainments and the difficulties that must yet be overcome.
After a few minutes, he observed with candid good sense, “We must strengthen the language somewhat. Portsmouth docks are no preparation for the halls of Oxford or Cambridge.”
He then assured both Mr. Bennet and the clergyman that their studies should commence on the morrow, with particular attention to securing the boy’s foundations in Latin, and extending them, as diligence allowed, to Greek.”
The third and final business of the day led them into a large street not far from the High Street, where a tailor of respectable reputation kept his shop.
There, with no ceremony beyond what decency required, William Collins was measured for two suits of plain but serviceable clothes—one intended for daily wear, the other of somewhat better cut, suitable for Sundays and for such occasions as might require a more orderly appearance.
The tailor, accustomed to such commissions, named a term of ten days for their completion—a period neither unusually short nor unreasonably long, and one to which Mr. Bennet readily assented.
The cloth selected was sober in color and durable in quality, chosen less for fashion than for propriety; for it was evident to all present that the young man’s present attire, though clean and carefully mended, could not long serve him in his new employment without betraying its modest origin.
From thence they proceeded to a shoemaker nearby, where, after some hesitation on William’s part and a firm but kindly insistence on Mr. Bennet’s, a new pair of shoes was ordered and fitted.
They were not elegant, but soundly made, suitable for daily use, and a necessary provision for one who was to sit long hours at a desk and walk regularly between home, office, and church.
William had already been furnished with a reminder—gentle, but unmistakable—that while he might attend the solicitor’s office for a few days in his present best Sunday clothes, such expedients could not be continued without embarrassment, nor without diminishing the respect due to his position.
A copyist, however humble his beginning, could not appear perpetually in garments worn thin by service at an inn.
Nothing in these purchases was extravagant; yet to the boy they signified more than comfort or decency. They marked, in quiet but unmistakable fashion, his passage from necessity to purpose—from chance employment to a path deliberately chosen and cautiously prepared.