Chapter 4
Four
The year which followed Mr. Bennet’s departure from Portsmouth passed with little outward disturbance at Longbourn, yet not without a steady undercurrent of correspondence and consideration which occupied more of his attention than his family at first supposed—and which he pursued with a quiet persistence that would have surprised those who knew him only for his customary indolence.
To Mrs. Bennet, whose notions of consequence were commonly awakened only by visible alteration—visits, expenses, or the introduction of new faces—the months appeared much as any other; her husband was no oftener absent than before, the household accounts remained unalarmed, and no young relation arrived to demand accommodation or sympathy.
She therefore concluded, with some relief—expressed in the occasional triumphant glance toward her husband, as though she had foreseen the matter’s gradual and convenient fading away—that Portsmouth was no more than an episode of transient duty rather than lasting consequence, and she resumed her usual round of complaints and anticipations with renewed vigor.
Mr. Bennet, however, knew better, and permitted himself a private satisfaction at the steady progress unfolding beyond her notice.
From the time William Collins entered Mr. Jennings’s office as a junior copyist, a regular exchange of letters was established—quiet, factual, and singularly free of sentiment, yet affording Mr. Bennet a growing sense of quiet vindication.
Mr. Jennings reported with professional satisfaction that the boy’s hand was not merely legible and correct but improving daily; that his attention did not wander; and that, once instructed, he repeated an error no more than once—habits which the solicitor described as “most gratifying in one so young and so lately removed from irregular circumstances.” Mr. Cobb, whose earlier impatience had given way to genuine interest—and even, in his later letters, to a note of paternal pride—wrote more freely still, remarking upon William’s uncommon willingness to labor strenuously, and his habit of remaining at his desk long after other apprentices of his age would have sought diversion in the streets.
He noted, with some pride, that the boy copied not only what was required of him, but occasionally read what interested him—acts which, though not encouraged, were quietly approved, as betraying a native curiosity that promised well for future scholarship.
From the church came reports of a different, though complementary, nature.
Father Hartley, whose judgments were formed neither hastily nor indulgently, and whose clerical reserve lent weight to every approbation, observed that William’s Latin, once uncertain, had acquired steadiness; that his translations, while not elegant, were faithful and conscientious; and that his disposition toward study appeared neither forced nor fragile.
William had also, with steady application, accustomed himself to the rudiments of Greek, a circumstance that drew from the good father a measured commendation.
Mr. Aldridge, the retired curate engaged for his instruction, was more explicit still.
He declared the boy fit, with continued application, to present himself for collegiate preparation; not as a prodigy, nor as one destined to distinction, but as a young man capable of discipline, submission, and perseverance—qualities which, in his opinion, were better foundations for clerical life than brilliance without restraint, and which he illustrated with brief anecdotes of the boy’s patient correction of his own faults.
William himself wrote constantly, his letters arriving with pleasing regularity and always directed in his increasingly accomplished hand.
His letters were brief, respectful, and marked by an exactness of expression which showed both care and progress.
He spoke little of his own merit, nothing of hardship, and never of complaint; but he mentioned his work, his studies, and his gratitude with a steadiness that satisfied Mr. Bennet more than enthusiasm could have done—and which occasionally drew from the gentleman a faint, involuntary smile as he read by the fireside.
There was no hint of presumption, and no trace of dependency beyond what the situation properly required, only a quiet assurance that the trust reposed in him was being diligently honored.
By the end of the year, therefore, Mr. Bennet found himself in possession of a rare and gratifying concurrence of testimony—a harmony of judgment that afforded him a deeper contentment than he would readily confess.
The solicitor declared the boy useful; the tutor pronounced him prepared; and the boy himself appeared neither elated by encouragement nor daunted by expectation.
It was then that Mr. Bennet resolved—without announcement, and with his usual dislike of ceremony—yet not without a private sense of anticipation at seeing the fruits of his intervention in person—that the time had come to take the next step.
He would go himself to Portsmouth, travelling with his customary economy and without fuss.
The purpose of this journey, however, was not merely to inspect what others had observed, but to conduct William in person to Oxford, there to be examined with a view to his admission, and to lodge him, during the trials, under the roof of Professor Saunders, whose earlier promise of supervision had not diminished with time—and whose recent letters had reaffirmed his willingness with scholarly punctuality.
Should the boy’s preparation prove equal to the undertaking, he would be received with a view to presenting him for matriculation at Michaelmas; should it fall short, no harm would be done, and the delay would be instructive rather than mortifying—a contingency Mr. Bennet contemplated with his characteristic equanimity.
Such was Mr. Bennet’s reasoning; cautious, deliberate, and free of false optimism, yet tempered by a growing conviction that the boy would not disappoint.
He planned, therefore, to take William from his father, bring him to Longbourn first to meet his family, there to pass a short interval—no more than a day and a half, he calculated—before proceeding onward.
Mr. Bennet made this decision without consulting his wife, not from secrecy, but from habit, knowing full well the tempest it would initially provoke; and when he at last informed her of it, over tea one quiet evening, he did so with such calm assurance that opposition, though attempted with her usual vigor, expired for want of encouragement.
Mrs. Bennet protested, as was natural, against the inconvenience of an unexpected visitor—her voice rising in familiar lamentation over the disruption to household routine, the extra work for the servants, and the inevitable strain upon her nerves—until she learned that the young man was to remain only for a few days, and that his prospects lay elsewhere, far from any permanent claim upon Longbourn’s resources.
She then softened perceptibly, her indignation giving way to cautious curiosity, and even began to wonder aloud—without committing herself to the opinion—whether a clergyman in the family might not, after all, be a respectable acquisition, should he prove agreeable in person and not too encroaching in his manners.
Of William himself, she had formed no clear idea, owing to the paucity of information concerning him—her husband’s habitual reticence on the subject having left her imagination free to wander between vague apprehension and indifferent dismissal.
That impression was soon to be supplied, and with it, perhaps, a revision of her poorer expectations.
***
Mr. Bennet and his young cousin reached Longbourn on the Tuesday afternoon, when the heat of the day had begun to abate, and the shadows of the old elms and beeches lay stretched and quiet upon the gravel sweep, as if the very place were disposed to receive them with its customary composure.
The carriage had scarcely drawn up before the main entrance door, its wheels crunching softly to a halt amid the familiar scent of warmed earth and late-summer roses, when Mrs. Bennet—who, having been told of their approach by a maid’s hurried report, had professed to disbelieve it until belief became unavoidable—was seen in the passage, her cap-strings fluttering with a movement which she would have attributed to the weather, but which owed rather more to agitated expectation than to any breeze.
By the time the gentlemen were conducted within and had fairly crossed the threshold, the broad entrance hall receiving them with its accustomed coolness and echo, Mrs. Bennet had already advanced to meet her husband, leaving the servants to manage cloaks and baggage as they might.
“My dear Mr. Bennet!” she cried the moment he appeared, advancing with hands outstretched and a flutter of her gown that betrayed her inward commotion, her tone uniting relief with long-pent apprehension.
“So you are come back at last! I declare, I have scarcely had a comfortable hour since you left—Portsmouth is such a place, and with business of that sort too. I never knew what to expect next.”
“I assure you, my dear,” returned Mr. Bennet, with that mildness which so often concealed an obstinate purpose, as he handed his hat to the waiting servant with deliberate calm, “my taste for the sea is confined to admiring it at a distance. I have brought you no tar, no tobacco, and—what I know will console you most—no inclination to remain there.”
Mrs. Bennet’s eyes had already travelled past him, narrowing slightly in appraisal, and fixed themselves on the young man who followed with a quiet step, hat in hand, looking neither abashed nor forward, but simply attentive to the proper moment of being addressed, his posture erect yet unassuming, his dark coat brushed free of travel dust.