Chapter 5
Five
William Collins’s first term at Oxford passed with a regularity that would have appeared unremarkable to those unacquainted with his former life, yet which, to himself, felt nothing short of transformative.
His days were governed by bells, books, and the steady expectations of others; his evenings by careful review, modest conversation, and such small duties as arose naturally in a household where industry was both valued and required.
He wrote home with punctual diligence—sometimes to his father, sometimes to Mr. Bennet, and often to both in turn—his letters marked by an increasing firmness of hand and a growing ease of expression.
To Portsmouth he sent brief but dutiful accounts, assuring his father that his health was good, his prospects improving, and his gratitude unaltered.
To Mr. Bennet he wrote with greater particularity, detailing his studies, his examinations, and the habits of collegiate life, without complaint, with genuine enthusiasm and a steady sobriety that testified more eloquently than praise to his contentment. He wrote in one such letter:
“I find, sir, that order, once established, lightens even the heavier labors, and that the mind, when properly directed, is less disposed to fatigue than I had formerly supposed. I endeavor to remember that every hour ill-spent must be answered for, and that my advantages are not of a nature to be squandered.”
Mr. Bennet read these letters with a quiet satisfaction he did not think it necessary to parade.
He folded them carefully, returned them more than once to his pocket, and occasionally allowed himself a faint smile over some unstudied phrase that revealed more character than intention.
That the young man neither exaggerated his progress nor diminished his obligations pleased him exceedingly, for he had long believed moderation to be the surest proof of sense.
Professor Saunders wrote less frequently, but when he did, his letters carried a weight that no abundance of words could have improved.
They were composed with scholarly economy, and addressed matters of fact rather than sentiment; yet the impression they conveyed was uniformly favorable. He wrote in late November:
“The young man you committed to my supervision continues to justify your confidence. His Latin is now serviceable rather than tentative, his Greek improving, and his habits of attention beyond reproach. This is not unjustified praise, but his scholars’ general opinion.
William Collins is no idle ornament to my household; indeed, I find him of considerable use. ”
Mr. Saunders proceeded to explain that William had made himself helpful in ways neither demanded nor expected, assisting with the copying and arrangement of papers, maintaining lists and accounts with exactness, and relieving his host of several small but continual tasks which, taken together, saved more time than one might at first suppose.
He added, with dry approval, that the young man was equally ready to lend his hands where learning alone could not suffice.
“He assists Mrs. Wells in the kitchen when occasion requires it,” Saunders noted, “with no air of condescension and no diminution of his studies; and he has proven himself willing, under Mr. Edmunds’s direction, to attend to such stable matters as must be seen to daily.
I observe all this not as a curiosity, but as evidence of a temper suited to usefulness rather than display. ”
This letter Mr. Bennet read aloud to his wife—selectively, it must be confessed—pausing where he judged it prudent, and passing over those particulars which he knew would invite either misunderstanding or alarm.
Mrs. Bennet, however, required little encouragement to be pleased.
“Well!” she exclaimed, when she had gathered that the young man was industrious, improving, and spoken of with approval by a gentleman of learning.
“I always said, Mr. Bennet, that if one must take an interest in poor relations, it is infinitely better to choose one who reflects credit upon the family. I am sure I am delighted to hear of it—quite delighted!”
“You are gratified, my dear,” her husband replied calmly, “by hearing that the experiment has not failed.”
“Experiment!” she repeated, with a look of offended sensibility. “I am sure I never thought of it as such. A young man so obliging, so attentive—helping in kitchens, you say?—it shows an excellent disposition. Quite the thing in a good clergyman.”
Mr. Bennet made no attempt to correct her enthusiasm, contenting himself with the knowledge that approval, once secured, was best not examined too closely.
As December advanced, and the term drew toward its natural pause, William’s letters took on a different cast. He wrote of the approaching recess, of students dispersing to their homes, and of the altered pace of the household, which, though still orderly, admitted a little more ease.
It was upon the receipt of one such letter, written in the first days of the month, that Mr. Bennet laid down his spectacles, sat for a moment in thoughtful silence, and then took up his pen. He wrote with a brevity softened by kindness:
“My dear Cousin William,
As your first term appears to come to its conclusion with every satisfaction to those interested in your progress, and as it is neither reasonable nor desirable that you should remain in Oxford during the Christmas season, I hope you will do us the favor of spending that time at Longbourn.
Your presence will give us sincere pleasure, and you may depend upon finding nothing in our manner or arrangements that need disturb your habits of order or study.
If this proposal suits your convenience, you may rely upon a very cordial welcome. ”
The letter was dispatched at once, and its effect, when it reached Oxford, was immediate and deeply felt.
William read it twice before folding it, his expression composed, yet softened by a warmth he made no attempt to suppress.
That he should be invited from inclination rather than obligation touched him more nearly than he could readily explain.
He answered without delay, expressing his gratitude with the same restraint that marked all his communications, yet allowing himself, for once, a line of unguarded feeling.
Professor Saunders, when informed of the invitation, approved it at once.
“You will do well to go,” he said, with his accustomed plainness. “Industry is best sustained when it is occasionally relieved, and gratitude, when acknowledged, strengthens rather than weakens the mind. We shall resume our labor in the new year with all the greater steadiness.”
Thus it was settled; and as the days shortened and the air grew sharp with frost, William Collins found himself counting—not with impatience, but with a quiet, reflective pleasure—the hours that lay between him and Longbourn, and with them, the renewal of faces and affections which had already begun to shape his life in ways he had never anticipated.
***
On Christmas morning, the Bennet family set out for church beneath a pale winter sun, the frost still clinging to the hedgerows and the air sharp enough to color the cheeks and brighten the spirits.
Mrs. Bennet, wrapped more warmly than any of her daughters and walking from the carriage to the church entrance with a resolute step that betrayed her sense of occasion, was in a state of mingled triumph and agitation; for she had not been able—nor, indeed, inclined—to keep entirely to herself the intelligence that their young cousin was now a student of St Edmund Hall, Oxford.
Since Mr. Collins had accepted their invitation to spend Christmas at Longbourn, at least half the parish was already acquainted with the fact, and the remainder were in active pursuit of confirmation.
Heads inclined, whispers passed from pew to pew, and more than one curious glance was directed toward William Collins, who bore this quiet scrutiny with a composure born not of indifference, but of habit.
He stood beside Mr. Bennet with respectful gravity, his countenance calm, his manner unassuming, as though the notice he attracted were an inconvenience to be endured rather than a distinction to be enjoyed.
The vicar, who was not a man to overlook either novelty or promise, greeted the Bennets at the porch with cordial civility, and after the customary salutations had been exchanged, turned his attention—very deliberately—to their young guest.
“Mr. Collins,” he said, lowering his voice with clerical discretion, “I am told you are pursuing your studies with a view to holy orders.”
William bowed. “I am, sir.”
“And that you possess a cultivated voice,” the vicar continued, with a glance that suggested the inquiry was not entirely without witnesses. “If you were willing, we should be honored by your leading a hymn this morning—apart from the general singing.”
Mrs. Bennet caught her breath. Mr. Bennet, for once, looked genuinely surprised, his brows lifting in a way that suggested both curiosity and a sudden reassessment of the morning’s possibilities.
Young Mr. Collins hesitated—but only for a moment. The pause was not born of vanity, nor of fear, but of a serious consideration of propriety. Then he inclined his head.
“If you think it fitting, sir,” he said quietly, “I would be glad to oblige.”
The service proceeded with its accustomed solemnity, the familiar prayers and readings carrying a particular resonance on that morning, when the church was fuller than usual and every voice seemed softened by the season.
William followed the liturgy with attentive reverence, yet Elizabeth—watching him from her place beside Jane—observed a change come over his expression as the sermon concluded: a steadiness deepening into resolve, a quiet drawing-in of purpose.
When the vicar at last turned and gave him a small, expectant nod, William rose solemnly.